


The Curious Case of Earl Harlan

by FalseProphet (Batmanthegroomer)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Horror, Librarians, M/M, More tags to come as the story unfolds, Mystery, does found family apply if you literally found a family?, father & son dynamics, memory problems, self harm kind of if you squint really hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batmanthegroomer/pseuds/FalseProphet
Summary: Earl Harlan was nineteen--up until he wasn't. Up until he was suddenly about middle aged with a son somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11. Neither of them seem to be able to remember the time between Not Being This Way and Being This Way. That time, though, did exist somehow--as there are pictures in Earl's home of Roger (his son's) life, growing up and smiling happily along with an Earl that Earl does not remember.Earl knows someone must know something but somehow no-one will talk. Subjects are quickly changed or some crazy thing interrupts the conversation or they simply laugh and say 'oh, Earl!' The only one who has given him any clue as to what happened in the missing years of his life is his mother... but her memory is failing her and she is rarely coherent enough for a long conversation.Desperate to solve the mystery and perhaps connect with his estranged son, Earl begins following loose threads and odd leads. He begins to get warning messages and threats telling him to stop. Strange things (stranger than normal) keep happening to stop him. And most disconcerting of all--a Librarian has begun to haunt his house...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

"Cecil," Earl Harlan began, voice interrupting the silence of their weekly coffee 'friend-date'. Cecil stopped stirring the pea gravel atop his foaming whipped cream and glanced up.

Earl's voice suggested more than a normal conversation. His tone was imploring and deep and certainly far outside the realm of normal chit chats and how-was-your-week preamble. It even seemed to rocket past the follow up small talk of considering the sky or where did Gold Street go. No, the tone was something heavier and Cecil was momentarily delighted--hmm, not delighted, nervous. Yes, definitely delighted. He wondered if maybe Earl was finally going to ask where babies come from. After all he seemed to have aged through the tender years of twenty three and four eighths--which is usually when sex education is taught. It's around then that most people are mentally stable enough to handle the truth.

The Radio Host is relieved when, instead, Harlan asked:

"Did you know that Librarians lay eggs?"

"I did not," Cecil said haltingly, "though it does make sense. They are kind of reptilian."

Harlan responded with a simple humming sound, as if he was either thinking on Cecil’s answer or had started a song and realized he’d forgotten all notes but the one. It happened to Cecil embarrassingly frequently so he knew the feeling. ‘You know the song,’ he would tell himself, ‘it goes uhh—it goes uhm… the first note is errr…’

“When did you first see a Librarian?” Harlan pressed, deep brown eyes staring at his fizzing straight black coffee. It was not that he was talking to the coffee, quite the opposite, it was just easier sometimes to look at inanimate objects when talking with Cecil. At least for Harlan. Feelings for Cecil aside he just found the other man to be a little hard to watch at times. Cecil was always moving and gesturing and Harlan was slower, more precise. It seemed to Earl that Cecil flailed through life and just happened to get lucky whereas Earl had to carefully consider each step lest he end up in a situation he couldn’t get himself out of. Envy and adoration were very like emotions, very hard to untangle, the sous chef was finding.

“I suppose,” Cecil sighed as he tilted his head back, leaning into his chair more fully, “oh! There was that free period, in our junior year, remember?” Excited by this Cecil leaned forward quickly and tapped two fingers on the table as if moved by some new discovery. 

Earl looked up slowly, tilting his head a little and raising his eyebrows. Their shared history was often safe to discuss unless, of course, Earl brought up actual dates or asked Cecil uncomfortable questions. The kinds that kept Earl awake at night. The kind that Earl could not rest without having answers to. 

“You remember,” Cecil said, reaching over to smack Earl’s forearm playfully. “We were just a few days shy of our indoctrination exams. We were both so worried about getting good grades! Oh, all the things we used to stress over seem so silly now. You were working on that paper of yours; that one you researched for weeks! What was it called?”

“’This Is Quite A Jamb: A History of Nightvale’s Doorless Buildings’,” Earl supplied with a very small grin.

“Yes! Yes that was it. We had decided to go poke around the house that doesn’t exist. You know the one: it’s right in between two similar houses so it would make more sense for it to be there than not,” Cecil paused to take a sip of his overly sweet drink. Earl pulled his lips in and pressed them together as his teeth ached at the thought of all that sugar. “We had to pass the library to get there. Some of the other kids in our class used to dare each other to see who would get closer, you remember that? We’d all take turns pushing and shoving until we caved in to peer pressure and the fear of failure and being ostracized from our social group outweighed the fear of whatever was inside the library. We’d dart forward, counting the steps the last person had taken and then, shakily, take just one more before turning around and moving back to the safety of the group.”

“I uh… I don’t remember that game,” Earl said earnestly, cupping both hands around his coffee as if they were cold. They were not.

“Oh? Are you sure? I could swear that you were there at least once…” Cecil paused to consider but waved it away before he became too distracted. “Anyway, the parking lot was empty when we walked by and—oh it had just rained!”

“And a low flying government helicopter knocked your umbrella out of your hands!” Earl said suddenly, slapping the table as he all-at-once recalled the experience. 

“Yes!”

“And you had to run after it, it was like you didn’t even realize it had bumped into the library,” Earl smiled a little wistfully, setting his exceptionally long black hair behind his right ear.

“I don’t think I was thinking of anything but my umbrella. It matched my eyes—and you know how hard it is to find things in the particular shade of my eyes—and I couldn’t just let it go,” Cecil held out a hand as if to say ‘right?’ 

“I do know,” Earl said quietly, but it was swallowed by Cecil’s voice as the radio host continued with his story.

“It got stuck on a bannister and so I climbed the front stairs and reached out to grab it. There was a large window behind me and that’s when I first saw one! Oh I remember being so scared I thought my heart was going to give out! I thought for sure I was going to die,” Cecil shook his head, “we believed such silly things as teenagers.”

“But what scared you, Cecil?” Earl pressed, having finally reached the round about point of his initial line of questioning. 

“Well, I mean, the Librarian, of course.”

“What about it, Cecil?”

“I—I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, Earl,” Cecil frowned, pausing to take another sip of his drink. “Librarians are frightening: They just are. Everyone knows that.”

“Do we?”

“I… I’m pretty sure we do,” Cecil scoffed, giving Earl a side-eye as if wondering what kind of drugs the sous chef was currently taking to forget something so obvious. 

“When do we learn that?” Earl continued, narrowing his eyes. 

“Earl, we see it all the time. Librarians eat people. They stalk people. We have to keep them locked up or they’ll kill people. I’m not… I’m not sure what you’re getting at. We have ample proof that they are… things to be feared.”

“Right, yeah, right,” Earl sighed, sitting up and glancing out the window. He caught a quick flash of movement as a few agents of a vague yet menacing government agency darted behind bushes so as not to be seen eavesdropping on the conversation. 

“Roger asked me when I was going to keep my promise to him,” Earl mumbled, still staring out the window. “I-I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Kids,” Cecil shrugged, “they say the darndest things! Oh, while we’re on the subject,” (they weren’t) “I know you’ve been eager to get back on the show,” (he wasn’t, not really) “and Station Management finally gave me the approval to schedule you at my whim!” (they had, actually, with a series of prophetic dreams which had to be played backwards to make any real sense. ‘Tnaw uoy revenehw nalraH lraE etivni nac uoY’.)

“Oh, yeah, good. All right,” Earl smiled, genuinely, softly, helplessly. “I do have a couple recipes I’ve been testing out. Two of them are actually safe, mostly. Mostly safe. As long as you’re not relying on both kidneys to function all the time.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Mom?” Earl called into the quiet lodge. “Are you here? I brought groceries,” shifting his weight he toed off both his shoes and stepped past the threshold into his mother’s house. He heard a slight clatter of wood in one of the back rooms and smiled slightly.

“Shiye, shiye,” came the worn voice as Alopay Harlan moved down the hallway with her arms outstretched. Earl set the bags down on the coffee table and bent slightly to embrace his mother. She patted his back and squished his cheeks with both hands as he pulled away.

“It’s been too long since your last visit,” Alopay reprimanded, brushing sawdust off her hands onto her apron. She’d left streaks of it across Earl’s dark skin but didn’t seem to care about that—only that her hands were dirty.

“I know,” Earl said, genuinely sorry, “I try to make time but time is weird. I feel like I have so many hours in the day and then before you know it they’re gone. Between working full time and-and Roger,” he shrugged.

“That boy is growing like a weed!” Alopay said cheerfully, starting to dig through the grocery bags Earl set down. “He’ll be tall, like my father.”

Earl forced a quick smile as she looked at him knowingly. The expression faded as she returned to rummaging through the bags. Earl glanced around the familiar lodge. He’d grown up there. He still had dreams about the long halls and the exposed dark wood walls. It was hard to heat and hard to cool but it still felt like home, still felt welcoming and comfortable. 

Earl could recall sitting on the floor, cross legged, with Cecil and other members of the Scouts. He remembered getting into silly children’s arguments about which historical figure could defeat whom in a battle of spines as the scouts sewed on their most recent badges. He remembered throwing a party for Lee Marvin’s first annual Night Vale Golden Globe awards—hosted, staffed and attended by Lee Marvin. Lee Marvin had won every award in every category. He had gracefully accepted each award from himself in a charming and humble way. He remembered curling up on the couch under a thick hand-sewn quilt, Cecil’s head on his—

“What is this?” Alopay asked suddenly, hoisting a vegetable from the bag. She glanced at it in confusion, scowling with her dark eyes studying the curves and smooth skin of the object in her hand. Earl frowned.

“A bell pepper, mom,” Earl reached out and took the vegetable. “Your favorite.”

The elderly woman continued to scowl for a second before returning her attention to the bag. Earl cradled the bell pepper in his lap. 

Memories and time were odd in all of Night Vale. Some things weren’t remembered by anyone until they were remembered by everyone, and some things were forgotten only by the people who were there but remembered by everything else. Folks did seem to have a firm grasp on themselves, however, and very rarely did anyone question anyone on the subject of self. If a citizen of Night Vale claimed to have once owned a dog, very few people would question them—maybe they had owned a dog! Even if they had lived with the person their whole lives and had never seen a dog, who’s to say they hadn’t actually owned one anyway? 

It was tougher when it was a matter of forgetting ones own memories just… just because one forgot. Just because one’s own mind could no longer make sense of the words and colors and shapes and feelings and emotions that linked one experience to the next. Who then became the expert on the subject of self when self was fading?

“Did Margaret help you pick these out?” Alopay cooed as she lifted a box of ripe mealworms from the bags. Her eyes sparkled a little mischievously. “She’s a great cook, that one. She could teach you a thing or two, you know. You never were very good in the kitchen.”

Earl tried not to give in to the electrical shock through his body. He wanted to jump up and grab his mother and shout ‘yes! Yes! Tell me more! Tell me anything!’ but he knew it would do no good. His mother was the only person who seemed to have any working recollection of what happened to him between nineteen and his current age. She seemed to be the only one willing to talk openly about Roger’s apparent mother and anything that happened in the big black pit that was Earl’s memory. How ironic then, the chef thought bitterly, that her mind was turning to mush.

This was, however, the first time she’d mentioned that Margaret could cook.

“Does she cook for you a lot?” Earl pressed oh so quietly, holding his breath.

“All the time,” Alopay said with an off-handed wave, taking the mealworms into the kitchen. “She used to make the lodge smell so good too. The air was just so crisp and mouth-watering. I didn’t need any of those silly scented candles when she was around, nope. She would just slather Pine-Sol on everything and get to scrubbing. She’d be on her hands and knees for hours just polishing away. I tried to tell her I could clean just fine on my own but you know how they get. She’d tell me this was her job and she was just doing what she was paid to do and I needed to stop worrying and get some rest.” 

Earl watched with sad eyes as his mother wandered about the kitchen. She pulled a large bowl out of a cabinet and set it next to the microwave. She placed the box of mealworms in the sink.

“Who, mom?”

“Oh that silly girl Maureen!” Alopay said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You know she lived here with me for a while after your father died.”

Earl sighed and nodded as if he knew. He didn’t know. He’d remembered his father alive. He’d remembered his parents as younger and healthy. He’d remembered his mother fending off more than a few eyeless messenger children like it was nothing. He’d had no time to come to grips with her as she was… alone, frail and old.

“You should stay for dinner,” Alopay said as she considered the microwave.

“I-I really can’t stay long. Roger will be home soon.”

“Who?”

“Ro-roger, my son?” Earl asked as if someday someone or something would actually answer him and tell him anything useful.

“Right, yes, of course. Off you go then! Children at home without parental supervision are likely to get into trouble… like reading and using writing utensils!”

Earl let himself be ushered to the door by his mother. He felt guilt eating up his esophagus. Had he really just come to see if he could get her to talk more about his own memory gaps? Did his gift of groceries and toiletries really get him off the hook for his own selfish interest? Could he really leave her on her own? (She wasn’t really on her own. The faceless old woman who secretly lived in their home had a soft spot for Alopay and Earl knew his mother had the other elderly woman to thank for a number of averted disasters. Still, he should look into getting her another live-in nurse or…)

“Are you lonely, mom?” Earl asked as he stepped outside, wiggling his feet back into his shoes.

“Well that’s a silly question,” Alopay said with a snort.

“Would you—how would you feel if—what if Roger and I came to live with you?”

“Oh! That would be marvelous. Give you and Margaret a little free time, hmm? Maybe give me another grandchild?” Alopay wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Heh, yeah, something like that.” Earl leaned forward and kissed his mother’s forehead as she patted his cheeks. “Good night, mom.”

“Good luck on your boy scout ceremony, Earl!”


	3. Chapter 3

Earl’s drive home was uneventful. He had to dodge three hooded figures, a crashing helicopter, Steve Carlsberg as he wandered into the street looking and pointing up at the sky, and Frank Chen—normal human—as he took a full three minutes to walk across the highway. So, a very uneventful drive. 

He sat in his car and didn’t move. He stared at his home and couldn’t bring himself to get up or turn off the engine. This is not the kind of home he’d imagined having at nineteen. When had this become paradise—or—was this just settling? Had this been Margaret’s dream home? Had Earl… had he bought the home for her? 

Even after (what? Months?) of living there it still just felt like an overly large hotel to Earl. Nothing was his, nothing was personalized in any way… except it was. There were pictures of Earl and Roger all over the walls. Pictures of the boy aging, playing, accomplishing things in his short eleven years. Pictures of the two of them smiling, doing things together. There were no pictures of Margaret anywhere, and Earl had looked. The second morning he’d been in his new life he had torn the house apart looking for pictures or documents or anything. He’d come up empty handed. 

Earl let out a gasp as a hand suddenly lurched through his open window and turned off the car. 

“Dad?” Roger asked quietly, staring through the lowered window. He said the word but they both knew he didn’t really mean it. He was tall, Earl thought, much taller than most eleven-year-olds… or… was he exactly the right height? Shorter? It had been so long since Earl was eleven-or whatever age Roger was. 

Earl smiled and Roger rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. Earl let his expression return to neutral. 

“Can we order pizza tonight?” Roger said, profile facing Earl as he stared at the house.

Earl felt his stomach flop and sink. His mouth tasted sour. He started to gather his things and moved to exit the vehicle. 

“You—you’d rather have pizza than—I mean you’d rather me not cook?” Earl turned back from closing the car door to find Roger looking at him, unamused.

“Yeah, I’d rather have pizza than you cook.” The boy parroted before shouldering his back-pack and heading inside. Earl sighed and pulled out his phone, dialing the number for Big Rico’s out of memory.

“Big Rico’s—what can I get for you?”

“Uh, a large pepperoni pizza.”

“Oh—we’re out of pizza.”

“You’re—”

“We’re out of everything, actually. We’re still just a hole in the ground,” the voice on the other line sounded vaguely apologetic but also vaguely annoyed like of course this was something Earl should have remembered. What stung the most was that Earl actually did remember the incident which led to Big Rico’s current state of disrepair. He’d had no excuse to not recall those circumstances… it had just been a lapse in memory.

“Right,” Earl said as he ended the phone call. He watched Roger in the distance walk inside, leaving the front door open behind him. Searching on his phone for other local pizza places that would deliver, Earl followed in Roger’s shadow.

The entry hall and adjoining living room of his home were average, he supposed. They were spacious but not in a way that suggested any kind of real money, more like in a way that suggested a kind of not poverty. There was room and that was about the lot of it. The carpet was faux grass in the hall and a soft pre-digested mulch under the couch—average. Earl could still see Roger’s footprints in the wet floor indicating the boy had retreated entirely to his upstairs room.

Earl couldn’t blame him. Earl frequently wanted to retreat. He supposed that did prove some kind of blood relation between the two of them.

He found another pizza place and placed an order, or at least he was fairly sure he did. The person on the other end of the line spoke in a series of grunts and whistles that Earl was fairly certain translated roughly to ‘how can I help you’ and ‘your order will be delivered to your home shortly’, but his studies into retail linguistics were outdated at best and shameful at worst. He couldn’t even remember how to ask for the bathroom.

Earl marched upstairs, having to count the steps to know when he’d reached his floor otherwise he’d just keep walking. He stepped into his room and began the necessary task of changing his clothes. He was still wearing his work uniform as meeting Cecil and visiting his mother all had to be done before Roger got out of school. Cecil hadn’t seemed to mind the professional outfit.

Earl carefully draped his white coat over a chair, stepped out of his pants and folded down his two-foot-tall chef’s hat. He pulled on a pair of gray slacks and picked up a couple different shirts, sniffing them before finding one that didn’t smell and pulling it over his head. 

As the fabric slipped down over his nose he noticed his closet door swaying open as if caught in a breeze. It had been shut just seconds before. He walked over and clicked on the light. A few shirts in the back jostled against one another and Earl leaned in to push them apart.

‘call maureen for your mother’ was scratched into the wood wall of his closet, ‘i am far too busy to watch her forever, i have my own things to attend to. like counting dust particles, mostly the dry ones, the wet ones are very hard to tell apart. they cling to each other like rats on a sinking ship not that i would know what that looks like.’ 

Earl nodded, turned off the light in his closet and headed back to the stairs. He paused as he passed Roger’s room. He could hear his son moving around, making some kind of strange noise that Earl couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t laughing or crying or howling, the three most common sounds made by any human, but it was definitely a sound Roger was making—likely with his mouth.  
Earl pressed his ear up against the door and closed his eyes: it was always easier to hear with closed eyes. 

Moaning? No, no it wasn’t moaning, too short. Growling? No, not that either, not enough reverb. The sound was followed each time but a very quiet, almost impossible to hear, thwack. Earl strained his senses further, pressing his entire weight onto the door. 

The sound stopped. Roger’s bed creaked. Earl had only a half a second to move away from the door before his son pulled it open. The boy looked up at him, unmoved, uncaring, apathetic. 

“Uh, dinner—should be here soon,” Earl said as fatherly as he could manage. 

“Ok,” Roger said, standing and waiting.

“Uhm so, you know, come on down to eat,” Earl said in the tone of a dad.

“Ok,” Roger said, upright and patient.

“Dinner is uhm… important,” Earl finished like a parental figure.

“Ok,” Roger said, not sitting and not frantic.

Earl nodded and awkwardly stepped away from the door. He slumped his shoulders forward and trudged down the stairs as Roger’s door clicked shut behind him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sat, alone, at the dinning room table after a quick wrestling match to subdue his chair.

‘Cecil—do you happen to have Maureen’s phone number?’ Earl texted.

‘Uhm… Yes! I should, somewhere.’ Came the quick reply.

‘Can I have it?’

‘Well, no, it’s her’s—Oh! Yes, ok. One sec.’

As he waited for Cecil’s reply the pizza arrived, thankfully. Earl set the table with a multitude of napkins—pizza without the hassle of wheat and wheat by-products was quite messy after all. He was almost ready to give up waiting for Roger and start eating himself when the boy showed up.

Earl tried not to watch with something like pride as the boy easily subdued a chair of his own and sat down. There was not a word spoken between them as they ate, though there were a few glances. To Earl’s thrill the glances were not all bad either, some were just nonchalant and neutral! 

As Earl stood and began gathering the plates he decided to attempt a conversation.

“I-I went to visit my moth-your grandmother today,” the chef began.

“Yeah?” Roger said, sounding almost interested. Almost.

“I was thinking, uh, she’s all alone out there and I’ve got a lot of good memories out in the lodge. Are you—I mean—are you happy here?” Earl frowned as Roger turned to look at him, confusion on his young face. Earl rubbed the back of his neck.

“Does it bring up painful memories of… uh…”

“Mom.”

“Y-yeah,” Earl felt defeated. Roger simply shrugged.

“I dunno. No? Nothing does. Do you want to go live at the lodge?”

“Yes!” Earl said, then quickly calmed himself. ‘Wow,’ he thought, ‘this kid is smart. He must have gotten that from his mother.’ “I mean, I was considering it. There’s plenty of room for us. It would be a nice ch-change, we could maybe… start fresh?”

Earl watched as Roger looked away. The boy’s expression was hard to read at the best of times, it was like another language all together at that moment. Earl felt like he was looking at some kind of being (not like an angel, but a real being) that was almost human but not quiet. The wrinkling of Roger’s facial muscles, the shape of his eyes, the size of his mouth—none of it translated to anything Earl was familiar with. 

Earl’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he glanced down at it. It was Cecil with Maureen’s number. As Earl texted a thanks and glanced back up at Roger the boy was walking towards the stairs.

“R-roger,” Earl called, almost reaching out for the boy’s shoulder.

“I’ll think about it,” it was as good an answer as any.

“Th-thanks. No rush,” Earl said, then added gently, “good night.”

“Yeah, good night.”

It was still fairly early in the grand scheme of how days usually worked but Earl could see no reason to keep himself awake any longer. He didn’t want to listen to Cecil’s radio show, he wasn’t in the mood for re-runs nor was he in the mood for Tim and Trinh to tell him the news and make pointed observations about his personal life on TV. So he took a shower (or rather he turned on the water and stood under it for what felt like an appropriate amount of time) and headed to bed.

He sat at the foot of his bed and stared at his chef’s uniform. The white of it was like a blank slate, like his memory, and in that second he hated it. He wanted to stain it with sauce and blood and oil and grit. He wanted something, anything, to stick and leave a permanent mark. To change or alter that terrain in any way. To give some kind of meaning to all the white nothingness.

He wanted…

He wanted…

A soft tap-clik at his window caught his attention. Tap-clik. Tap-clik. 

Earl glanced over his shoulder at his closed bedroom door. Still closed. Still his bedroom door. He stood up and made his way to the window just like he had the past few nights to answer the tap-clik of pebbles being thrown at the glass, or maybe it was claws on the glass, he wasn’t sure. It usually happened so late into the night that he couldn’t really see exactly what was going on.

The figure was in his yard again, staring (was it staring?) up at his bedroom window. Its shadow shuddered or the long, shifting sand beneath its shadow shuddered, either way there was some kind of movement in the inky blackness around the creature’s feet.

Earl slowly opened his window. The figure did not move, it remained in his yard, what Earl assumed was a head trained up at him. Usually Earl simply leaned out on his elbows to study the figure. Usually there were exchanged ideas either made-up in Earl’s own broken mind or actually communicated somehow from the creature. Earl wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or dreaming because none of it made any sense: Librarians were evil, hostile creatures and were certainly not simply curious onlookers who threw rocks at people’s windows.

Usually that’s all that happened, an exchange either made-up or real.

Earl slowly swung his legs out of the window to sit on the pane. He saw the figure shudder. He carefully leaned his whole body out to sit precariously on the window ledge. The fall wouldn’t kill him (he didn’t think) but it would sure cause some damage. Would the trauma to his head restore some memories? Would the Librarian—or whatever it really was—prove itself real or not? 

One thing was for sure:

SOMETHING

Would happen.

Earl closed his eyes, released the window behind him and tipped his body forward.


	4. Chapter 4

Earl walked into the Night Vale Community Radio with a large duffel bag over his shoulder. He smiled easily at Lance, the receptionist, and gave a slight nod as Lance held up a polite finger and then tapped his headset. He was on a call and would be with Earl in a moment. Earl was in no rush.

He admired Lance for a moment, looking at his nails as he listened intently to the person on the other line. The man’s pink eyelashes were a great source of envy in the community—firstly because they were natural and secondly because no one else had eyelashes in a color that so beautifully contrasted against their dark skin and gold eyes. Lance was indeed quite attractive. 

“-no, thank you! You know, nobody ever thinks about extending their car’s warranty. I’m glad we had this chat.” Lance said cheerfully, disconnecting the call and grinning up at Earl. “Good morning, Mr.Harlan.”

“You can call me Earl,” the chef chuckled.

“Cecil is expecting you. Intern Crystal is in the booth right now and she’ll let you know when to go in.”

“Thank you,” Earl gave a small grin as Lance winked at him and then immediately took another call.

“Night Vale Community Radio how can we—Now, Mr.Carlsburg, you know I can’t do that…”

Earl felt strangely comfortable walking down the radio hallway. He’d only been a guest a couple of times but it was starting to feel normal. It was unsettling. He didn’t want it to feel normal at all. He was trying to move away from his feelings for Cecil, really he was, and he imagined feeling comfortable in the radio station was about four steps backwards from Away From Cecil.

Intern Crystal smiled at him widely, holding up a finger to remind Earl they were live and broadcasting. She waved him quickly into the booth and returned her attention to Cecil. Earl did the same.

Cecil sat in front of the microphone, back as straight as a rocket, all three eyes open wide and whited out. His purple tattoos danced across his skin and incorporeal—well, semi-corporeal—tentacles sprouted from somewhere, whipping around behind him.

“What is he--?” Earl whispered.

“Just moved into traffic,” Crystal supplied.

Oh, that explained it. Earl picked up a set of headphones and tuned in.

“—boy standing in the median. He isn’t wearing shoes and his toes are sinking into the moist ground. Behind him there are minor achievements and major milestones, in front of him are lesser milestones but greater achievements. In fact he has already hit the most important milestones in his life. Of course in front of him he must get a job, perhaps a hobby, marry, settle down, presumably in his own home—presumably—procreate. Assuming those are the choices he wishes to take. He may wish to stay single, remain alone to focus on himself. He may wish to marry many people or things, or only casually entertain the idea. All of these seem like major milestones but in fact they are nothing compared to what he has already achieved. For he has mastered his language and can thus communicate with those around him. He has mastered locomotion—in his case walking—and thus can move to and from different locations. He has mastered the art of emotions—at least in the most basic sense—and he has mastered his body’s own needs. Wants and desires will change but needs stay mostly the same. He is stuck in a state of limbo, unsure of where to go. The path before him looks promising but oh, oh if he could just turn around and go back the way he came. Does he not know the path forward is not worth it?! Wrecked with horrible sadness and desperate measures and loss and pain and fruitless efforts and so much darkness… But he gets a puppy on his next birthday! Also he is very small and not causing any impact on the surrounding traffic. Smooth sailing, Night Vale!”  
Earl stepped away from the headset as the intern tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Community Calendar is next and then you’re up. You can head in now, quietly.”

“Thanks, Crystal.” Earl re-shouldered his bag and stepped out of the booth. He very gently turned the knob and stepped into Cecil’s recording studio. The tentacles, the white-eyes and the rod-straight-back were all gone and his friend sat, leaning conspiratorially towards the microphone with a smirk. He waved at Earl briefly before glancing down at the Community Calendar in his hands.  
Earl took the time to get set up.

“This Monday is actually Tuesday. Tuesday will be Wednesday and Wednesday will be Wednesday so plan accordingly. Thursday is that thing you said you’d do—yup, it’s here. You know the thing? The thing you really didn’t want to do but felt such a strong sense of moral obligation to do and so you agreed to it thinking you had plenty of time between the time of agreement until the actual thing. That thing. It’s here. It’s time. I hope you’re ready but we both know you’re not. We both know you put off planning until the last possible second. We both knew you were secretly hoping this thing would not come to pass—but it will. This Thursday. Friday is—Oh! Excellent! This Friday is Lee Marvin’s 30th birthday! Exciting! Happy early birthday, Lee Marvin! A birthday celebration will be held in your own living room if you know what’s good for you. Saturday the bottomless void well is returning for three hours—likely 1pm, 5pm and 7:43 to 8:43pm. Make sure to gather all your loose change and bring the family! Toss in your coins and then vent your grievances! Hopefully your donation is enough to cover your time, otherwise the bottomless void well will be taking out the difference in flesh. Sunday is on a Need To Know basis.”

Cecil glanced over at Earl and they nodded at each other.

“And now, listeners, it is time for another delicious cooking segment with Tourniquet’s very own sous chef, Earl Harlan!” Cecil smiled warmly as Earl put on his headset and leaned towards his own microphone. 

“Good morning, Cecil, Night Vale.”

“Well, don’t keep us waiting Earl! What are we cooking today!”

“Today I thought I’d do an old classic; flatatouille.” Earl indicated his ingredients, forgetting that no-one listening would be able to see him.

“Ooh! Sounds complicated!” 

“It’s actually fairly simple. 

“Begin by heating 3 tablespoons of oil in a large nonstick pan over medium heat. Add eggplant and season with ¼ teaspoon of salt. Cook, stirring frequently, until soft and starting to brown. Transfer that to a plate and set it aside. Add another tablespoon of oil to the pan, then toss in zucchini and cook—stirring frequently!—until tender crisp. Season this with ¼ teaspoon of salt, transfer to a plate and set aside! Add two more tablespoons of oil to the pan, onion and bell pepper. Cook these—stirring frequently?—for about five minutes then add garlic and continue to cook for another three minutes. Next add the tomatoes, tomato paste, thyme, sugar, crushed red pepper flakes, and ¾ teaspoon of salt. Cook—let’s try stirring occasionally—until the tomatoes are broken down into a sauce. Add the cooked eggplant, bring to a gentle boil, reduce heat to low and simmer uncovered for about ten minutes. Add the zucchini and cook for another minute, taste and adjust seasoning. Sprinkle with fresh basil and thyme, drizzle with a little olive oil and plate.

“Now for the finishing touches, get out your steamroller.”

“Ahh—” Cecil interrupted worriedly. Earl held up a hand to quiet him.

“Don’t worry Cecil, I didn’t bring a steamroller with me. Everyone knows they are the mortal enemy of cats and we wouldn’t want anything to happen to those kitties in the men’s bathroom!”

“Indeed!”

“I did, however, prepare a nice flatatouille last night and brought it in for us to sample.”

“Ohh!” Cecil almost clapped as Earl swiped away all the ingredients—laid out on the desk—and placed what appeared to be a piece of flattened mush onto the table. He used a pair of scissors to cut Cecil a piece and delightedly handed it over, crushing a bell pepper under his shoe as he did. The chef watched—feeling a little like he was watching something he shouldn’t be—as Cecil brought the food to his mouth and took a delicate, but generous bite.

“Ohh, hmmm, mmm!” Cecil moaned in appreciation. “Wow! Oh! Listeners, I know you can’t taste this and it is a shame. The notes of asphalt and—is that parking lot debris?” 

“It is! I rent my steamroller out to Ralph’s on the weekends.”

“This is truly among the best things I have ever put into my mouth.”

Earl swallowed hard and turned to stare down at the mess of ingredients seeping into the recording studio carpet. 

“Well, while we eat the rest of this amazing dish, you—listeners—eat the weather! I mean ear. Hear. Listen. Weather!” Cecil leaned back in his chair and removed his headset with a sigh. He took another bite of the flatatouille and made another pleased groan. 

“This may be—Earl—wow, the best thing you’ve made here so far!”

“Glad you like it, Cecil,” Earl said quietly, but earnestly at least. 

“Oh, how are you and Roger getting along?” Cecil pressed as he cut himself another piece. “Last time we talked he was—or it seemed like he was trying to be a little more engaged?”

“A little, it-it varies from day to day, really. I’m not sure who has it worse between the two of us honestly. I can’t remember a huge portion of my life and he can’t remember his life, period. He just… exists now. Knows things, doesn’t know other things, knows a lot of things. I don’t think either of us know how to feel or think about it though… not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Cecil nodded sympathetically from around another mouthful of food.

“I hear that’s just how raising kids can be!”

“Maybe… maybe…”

“You should bring him by sometime, really. With Carlos still in the Desert Otherworld my nights are kind of quiet. I’d love to meet him.”

“I—uh, I don’t—yeah. Maybe,” Earl shrugged and picked at a piece of flatatouille himself. “I was actually thinking about us—Roger and me—moving in with my mom.”

“Oh, back at the lodge! That would be great. I loved that place. So many good memories.”

“Right?” Earl laughed. “I’m hoping maybe a change of scenery, getting away from all those… pictures… and non-memories… Hoping it will help.” Earl watched as Cecil nodded encouragingly at him, while putting his headphones back on.

“Well, I think I am stuffed. Thank you again, Earl, for that delicious recipe!”

“No, thank you Cecil. You know I love our CHATS. I really do love TALKING with you, Cecil. Love it. Talking with you…”

“Me too, Earl! Now, an update on Pamela Winchell’s missing exotic fish collection…”


	5. Chapter 5

The lodge was silent except a strange hissing, scraping noise. There were no movements in the house save in the large studio in the back. No one was upstairs. No one was making food in the kitchen. There were no chores to be done and no guests to attend to. It had been that way for far too long.

Once the lodge had been a hub of activity. Teddy Harlan was a Den Father for the Night Vale Boy Scouts and almost every night saw a parade of Night Vale’s youth through the home. They would fill the wood halls with laughter and chatter, the kind of energetic nonsensical chaos that all children understand only to forget as they age. A kind of noise that adults could look back on with that bittersweet sensation of nostalgia knowing they once knew that language but would likely never speak it again.

Even if the scouts were not actively gathering there were always people at the Harlan lodge. Alopay taught a combination meditation self-defense class regularly in the back studio, multiple times a day, most days a week. When Earl was not playing with the scouts he was entertaining Cecil Palmer, his obvious best friend. The Harlan’s knew Cecil’s home life was, well, less than desirable and so he was always welcomed at the lodge—and he took them up on the offer on more than one occasion. 

There had been one night in particular—a night that unfortunately only Cecil remembered now, if at all, fleetingly, sometimes—when a rainstorm had drenched the desert. Alopay did not know the reason Cecil felt he had to leave his home in the middle of the night and walk through the downfall to get to the lodge, but she did not ask questions. The Native American woman ushered the sopping wet boy in, frowning at his rail thin arms wrapped around his tiny chest, shivering and quaking from a wet combination of rain and tears. Everyone else had been asleep. Alopay brought him a change of clothes and made him a cup of hot chocolate. She sat with him on the couch while he cried—a little—then calmed and eventually fell asleep. Earl had been surprised to find his friend seated at the breakfast table the next morning but neither Cecil nor Alopay ever mentioned a word.

It was a place of laughter and gathering—it was reduced to a lonely place of chaotic solitude. 

Except the back studio.

Alopay’s one true passion had always been wood carving—and not just any wood carving: Alopay carved boats. Huge, viking-like, sea-worthy vessels from single trunks of large trees felled in one of Night Vale’s disappearing and reappearing forests. She would traverse the woods with the skill of her son and his scouts until she found an appropriate piece—usually about seventy feet long and twenty feet wide. She would drag it back to the lodge with a special harness and pulley system she’d rigged up and get to work.

She could lose days on a ship project. Sanding, carving, polishing, sanding some more, chopping, sawing, painting. Each hull was lovingly etched with incredibly detailed carvings along the side, each telling a story from her family’s culture. Stories of heroes and of old gods; of wise men and spry maidens; of strong family bonds and the flow of time. 

The long tall masts would be the final touch but none of her ships were ever fitted with sails. Night Vale was, after all, nowhere near a body of water. So Alopay’s ships began to accumulate in the far rear yard, massive and hulking. The mast poles streaking towards the sky like wooden arms, towering and swaying in the wind. She made so many ships the yard, from a distance, looked like a strange leaf-less forest of straight pines. Up close one could describe the scene as either a child’s dream playground or a horrific, abandoned ghostly port. Some of the ships sat directly atop the sand, towering and imposing. Others had worn a hole in the ground from years of swaying and settling and were little more than platforms or mast poles sticking up from a desert grave.

In the cool breeze of the still, quiet night—for the lodge was a good distance from Night Vale proper—the creaking and swaying and shifting of the boats in the sand sang a haunting song. It had been Earl’s lullaby, growing up. It had never really occurred to Cecil but it was also the reason the creaking of old doors and the settling of old houses made him feel so safe and secure.

Alopay paused, stepping back to admire her work. The ship was nearly complete and, to her, it was quite perfect. The carvings looked just like she had seen them in her mind, each curve and fold of fabric perfectly executed. To her it was a depiction of a celebration—people danced and cheered and played hand-held instruments. They swirled around the figurehead which was of an elderly woman with no face, fists wrapped tightly around ropes as she seemed to pull the boat with determination alone.

But to onlookers?

Shapes and swirls and rises and crests and a myriad of nonsense aligned the ship. Granted it was beautiful, smooth and skillful nonsense—it was still nonsense. The celebration was felt by those who viewed the ship only in that it was truly a celebration of a masterwork of art. The individual figures, the people and the faces and the emotion were for Alopay alone.

There was a second where the elderly woman thought she was forgetting something. Her fervor halted she glanced towards the door. Had she left the stove on? The fireplace burning? It had been a little while since she had seen Teddy, hadn’t it?

The moment passed quickly and she remembered what she had been doing. With a large smile Alopay rolled her shoulders and set back to work.


	6. Chapter 6

Earl stood in the doorway of his home, duffel bag still over his shoulder, staring. He hadn’t considered that taking the day off to do Cecil’s show would mean he had so much down time. He didn’t really like downtime. He took a slow, deep breath and carried on.

He took the duffel bag to the kitchen and began going through the supplies. Some of the ingredients he could keep but some had definitely spoiled. He may—or may not—have spent longer than he needed to just sitting in his car both at the radio station parking lot and in his own driveway. 

He restocked his kitchen and took a second to take out the trash. Leaving spoiled food inside was a good way to attract deer. The last time Earl had made that mistake he’d gotten into a very heated debate with a bloody realtor about the housing market not crashing but simply creating a new, cavernous market of homes for the people who lived under lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Wouldn’t it just be great to get in on the ground floor of that deal?!

Earl had chased him off with a broom.

Wishing his unpacking had taken longer, Earl decided changing his clothes was the next task. He counted the stairs and stepped off into the hallway. It had taken him a few days to learn how to navigate the endless staircase of his new home. The lodge had an old-fashioned fixed staircase which needed no extra thought to navigate, this home was state-of-the-art however and that included an endless staircase for late night wandering. It was also a top notch security measure. There were one or two moments when Earl had actually considered walking up the staircase to see how far he could go before he collapsed.

Stepping into his bedroom he quickly stripped himself of his uniform. He dressed comfortably but not lazily, knowing he still had evening plans to see to. 

As he sat on the bed and bent down to retrieve his shoes he heard a loud thunk followed by the hollow sound of something heavy rolling across carpet. He turned his head and watched as a clear-and-red marble made a path across the carpet of his bedroom. The marble swerved right and left, making circles and strange shapes in the soft carpet. It looked like a dog chasing its tail before it seemed to recall it had a job to do and darted off, quicker than before, in a straight line for the tall, solid bookshelf in the corner of the room. It zipped underneath the tiny gap with a sucking POP.

Earl stared for a moment before getting up and approaching the bookcase curiously. He stood still as a faint buzzing sound reached his ears, like a mass of flies or fresh black coffee. He squinted in concentration but couldn’t make out what was causing the sound.

He knelt in front of the wooden furniture and attempted to peer under it. The gap was barely large enough for his finger. He pushed and mushed his face into the carpet but still couldn’t see anything. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. Turning on the flashlight (ignoring the usual shrieking that accompanied the light) he attempted once more to peer under the bookshelf.

Amidst the dark shadows of untouched carpet under the incredibly heavy case was the marble. It was spinning wildly like a spun top. It was resting on a single piece of paper and the friction was causing the buzzing sound. As Earl’s eyes landed on the marble and focused enough to identify it, the spinning stopped. 

Earl needed that piece of paper.

He snapped off his flashlight app and stood up quickly. He glanced at the heavy shelf and nodded to himself—there was no one else to nod to. Then with all the chaos of a rabid bear he began to rip books from the shelf. They were all municipally approved books, of course. He tossed them haphazardly over his shoulder where they landed like falling leaves (very, very heavy falling leaves) on his floor, his bed and any other space they could potentially occupy. As the pile grew and grew a couple even rolled off each other and started to accumulate in the hallway.

The more books Earl pulled off the more seemed to appear. He felt like he should have been making some kind of headway but all the shelves still looked full. By the time he was out of breath he was standing in about three feet of books, his bed long lost to their wordy-pages and the shelf was still stocked full. 

Frustrated, Earl sloshed his way to the side of the bookshelf. He pressed his shoulder against it and pushed with every bit of strength he possessed. The shelf pushed back. Earl ground his teeth and pushed harder. The shelf tilted towards him in effort, both grunting and straining. 

Giving one last valiant effort Earl slipped and slammed his face into the side of the shelf. He sunk to the book-strewn floor as the furniture laughed at him and his human-like bleeding nasal opening. Earl pushed his fingers against his nostrils to try and stem the bleeding, when that failed he grabbed the nearest book and ripped out a page. He ripped the page in half, twisted both halves and shoved them up his nose, before returning to rest against the side of the now-quiet bookshelf. 

Earl needed that piece of paper.

He turned his head and contemplated the books now the room’s primary decoration and function. He picked one up and flipped through the pages for lack of anything else to do at that moment. The paper in his nose smelled like cherries. He let the book fall out of his hands and sighed heavily.

It looked like it was no good trying to get under the bookshelf… at least, not from this floor. Earl shot up and began struggling to get through the book-sea to the hallway. His bedroom was directly above the living room. He could get downstairs, grab a ladder and cut up into the floor! He could get under the bookshelf from under the bookshelf!

The sous chef stumbled and fell into the hallway, almost dislodging his nose stuffing. He clambered to his feet and sped down the stairs. He threw open the utility closet and began throwing things out of his way until he found the step ladder. He carried it into the living room and stopped, staring up at the ceiling. He tried to imagine the layout of his bedroom, the approximate distance from one object to the next. He wandered in a few circles staring upright before deciding he thought he was close enough and slamming the step ladder onto the ground and folding it open.

He returned to the utility closet and triumphantly removed his power saw. He moved back to the living room and stood in the doorway, revving the power tool twice. 

He launched himself up the ladder and began carving a square into the ceiling with wild abandon. He felt sawdust and who-knew-what-else falling into his eyes and caking his hair. He could not be bothered.

Earl needed that piece of paper.

His first hole was not a success. He hadn’t even finished connecting his saw lines when the weight of the books above caved in the hole and showered the man with government approved literature. He climbed to the very top of the step ladder (ignoring the siren and sobbing voice begging him NOT TO USE THE TOP STEP) and poked his head up into the floor of his bedroom. All he could see around him was a pile of books. He huffed, climbed down (oh thank god thank god thank god!) and repositioned the step ladder.

An hour later Earl had made fourteen holes. There were fourteen piles of books in the living room. There were fourteen new skylights in the living room ceiling. There were fourteen new pit falls in his bedroom. But fourteen was the lucky number. As Earl braced himself the crash of books did not come and he found he had to complete his saw lines and almost wrestle the wood to break and give way. As he pulled down the drywall he heard the marble clatter to the floor and caught the piece of paper as it began to flutter away.

He did not even bother descending the ladder or putting down the power tool before reading it. Scrawled in what was very clearly pencil was a very strange note.

‘Margaret, please continue to try. I know things are getting a little, well, upsetting but we can’t stop now. Not yet—not when we are so close. Just be careful. Keep your eyes peeled for [REDACTED]’ and this was written, exactly, ‘as they are onto you. Make sure your [REDACTED] and the [REDACTED] are [LANGUAGE NOT FOUND]. I [404 ERROR] and know you do too. Best of luck, [WE’RE SORRY, YOUR CALL COULD NOT BE COMPLETED AS DIALED. PLEASE HANG UP AND TRY AGAIN].’


	7. Chapter 7

Roger Harlan stared listlessly out the window of the car, chin in his hand, watching the city zoom by. His head was buzzing with thoughts and confusion and he wondered if it was the same for all kids or just for him—the kid that didn’t exist, Zombie Boy. He scowled harder at his reflection which didn’t appear at all but he was certain he saw something staring back at him from the glass.

“Now uh,” his father said as he turned the car down another street, “you know she’s worse at night. Her memory, I mean. Just—” a long sigh, as if Earl were arguing with himself before actually deciding on what to say, “try to be patient with her?”

“Yeah, ok,” Roger said, his tone non-committal but his intent genuine. 

The boy had told his father he would consider moving to the lodge but it had only been about twenty four hours since he’d been asked and he felt things were moving a little too quickly. Granted Earl did say they weren’t moving in permanently but after the state of the house when Roger came home (piles of books everywhere, holes in the ceiling of the living room) they really didn’t have any other choice for places to spend the night.

Roger had never been to the lodge, or at least, he could not remember having ever been at the lodge. Maybe he had been. Maybe he’d spent countless days there with his grandparents. Maybe his mother. Maybe… even his father. Maybe seeing it again would jog something loose, make him remember something. This hatched a fleet of butterflies in his stomach full of something like timid hope.

Roger burped and spit a blue butterfly into the car. It fluttered forward and landed on the dashboard, not at all put out as most butterflies are used to coming and going from human digestive tracts.

“Are you… nervous?” Earl asked quietly, noticing the butterfly on the dashboard.

Roger just shrugged. He felt Earl’s eyes on him from the rear-view mirror. The boy had not wanted to sit up front and had opted to take up the back seat instead. 

“Do you—remember the lodge? Ha-have you ever been there?”

“I dunno,” the boy shrugged again. “I remember that I have a grandmother.”

“Well, that’s something!” Earl said, trying to be positive. The sentiment didn’t stick.

The rest of the drive was spent in thick, heavy silence. After a few moments of awkward tension the butterfly rolled down the passenger’s side window and took a kamikaze like tumble out of the car. It would much rather try to make it on its own in the big desert than spend another minute in the clogging tense air of the Harlan car.

Roger pulled his hand away from his chin and sat up a little straighter as they neared the lodge. It was an old wooden building, exceptionally long, but the boy’s eyes were drawn to what appeared to be the backyard—a variable forest of long, thick poles. They reached towards the sky without leaves or branches. There were dozens, no, hundreds of them. 

“What…?” Roger began.

“Your grandmother’s hobby,” Earl said as if that explained everything. Roger nodded but he didn’t understand. 

The car pulled into the driveway and the two exited quietly. The sun had set a little while ago so the area was dark, much darker than the well-lit subdivision they’d come from. A porch light attracted bugs and hikers who flitted around in circles, staring up at the bulb with empty gazes. Earl pushed through the hikers and ushered Roger ahead of him.

“Mom?” Earl called as he kicked off his shoes and stepped inside. Roger watched Earl curiously but didn’t really feel like taking his shoes off—and no one had asked him to. He stepped into the almost pitch house, squinting as if somehow that would help him see.

“Who’s there?” Came a voice that was somehow both tired and intimidating. 

“Mom, it’s Earl. I-I brought Roger. I thought we could stay here tonight?” Earl continued gently pushing Roger further into the house. The boy wasn’t sure why but his legs had trouble remembering how to walk. The lodge was so old, so rustic, and though just about everything in Roger’s life fell into the category of ‘he had never seen anything like that before’ this certainly was something he had never seen anything like before.

Roger stepped back and felt Earl behind him as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He tried to follow it but it seemed just out of his line of sight as he turned his head. His breathing grew shallow and quick. He heard a creaking down the hall and jerked his attention in that direction. A door opened and a sliver of light poured into the hall. Now Roger was squinting for a different reason—very adaptable, squinting. A figure stepped into the hallway, walking slowly, cautiously. 

Earl leaned forward and turned on the light in the den, causing Roger to blink furiously and rub at his eyes.

“Oh, Earl!” Alopay said in recognition as she stepped into the room, clapping her hands together in delight. She surged forward and—to the slight horror of both her guests—clapped her hands on Roger’s cheeks, squishing them inwards.

“Did you have a good trip with your scouting group?”

Roger tilted his head to look up at Earl imploringly. Earl looked just as lost and aimless as his son so he settled for a soft grimace and a shrug.

“Th-that’s Roger, mom,” Earl attempted gently.

“Who?” asked the old woman.

“Roger. M-my—your grandson.”

“I know that!” Alopay insisted, ruffling the boy’s hair and stepping back. “Should I put on some water? Make us all some tea? It’s a rough storm out there, hmm?”

Roger turned his head—rubbing his cheeks and the slight red marks left behind by far too inquisitive fingers—to peer out at the clear night sky through the large den windows. Earl moved out from behind him and Roger felt his cheeks flush for a totally different reason—the ever-present childhood sense of shame and embarrassment. He’d been leaning up against Earl, his father, he supposed. Roger adjusted the bag over his shoulder as his father walked further into the house.

“I think tea would be a great idea,” Earl said, dropping his own bag on the floor near the couch. “Have you eaten dinner yet, mom? I could cook us something quick?”

“Oh Earl, don’t be silly!” Roger heard Alopay laugh from the kitchen, “you’ll burn the lodge down! I’ll cook.”

Roger startled slightly as Earl suddenly leaned back through the doorway to look at him.

“Why don’t you go look around? Pick a room for the night. I’m—I’ll be… I’m going to sleep on the couch here,” and he pointed, as if maybe his idea of ‘couch’ and Roger’s idea of ‘couch’ were different.

“Ok,” Roger said quietly as Earl vanished back into the kitchen.

The boy stood for another still moment in the den. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was hidden away, watching him. His eyes flowed over the exposed wood log walls, various pictures hung here and there depicting nothing that really caught his attention. There was a double wide fireplace, currently unlit, that was the centerpiece of the room and a large, very intricately woven quilt hung directly above it. 

Roger glanced down the hallway his grandmother had come from and decided to try upstairs first. He thought about calling to Earl to ask how many steps until the first floor but decided against it—he could figure it out on his own. He started upwards, counting and found that unnecessary as the steps just… stopped. 

‘Oh,’ he thought to himself, ‘that’s right. This lodge is super old so the technology is super old. Weird.’ Stepping off the definitively ending stairs, and rolling his eyes at the ancient-ness of it all, Roger found himself in another dark hallway. Why was everything so dark?

He turned and entered the first room on his right, not really keen on wandering through the hallway to cherry pick a bedroom for one night. He had already decided he absolutely did not want to live in this too old house.

He flicked on the light as soon as he opened the door and was relieved that it worked. It seemed like a normal room—a bed, a dresser, a chair and vanity, a full-size iron cage with an alarm peacock and an electric-prod snooze. As Roger dumped his bag on the bed he noticed a bowl on the dresser and it seemed filled with something… shiny?

He approached and hummed to himself. It was a bowl full of marbles they were clear with splashes of color swirling around in them. A layer of dust had gathered atop them and Roger could see where a single marble had recently been plucked out—or at least more recently than the others had been touched. There were slight smudges on a few of the top marbles to indicate whoever had picked up that single marble had brushed their fingers against the others in the process.

Roger felt his fingers twitch. He lifted a hand and slowly dipped it into the bowl of marbles. The heavy, cold stones rolled over his palm and skin as he pressed his fingers down until they reached the bottom. He wiggled his fingers and the marbles clunked together, rolling and grinding like over-worn gears. 

He became aware that one marble, deep in the mix, was rolling faster and more frantically than the others. He was startled at first and then quickly curious. He stretched and moved his fingers until he found the buzzing marble and felt it vibrating against his fingertips in a way that almost itched or burned. He closed his fist around this single marble and pulled his hand free of the bowl with the still vibrating marble in his palm.

He slowly opened his hand and watched as the marble almost crested his palm and then rolled backwards, still and silent. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it into the air, squinting at it curiously. It seemed just like a regular marble to him.

He placed it in his pocket.

Feeling a bit more emboldened he decided to explore the upstairs a bit more. He found two more identical bedrooms, a bathroom, and a room that didn’t really exist. It was in the same hallway as the other rooms with the same old oak door but it didn’t really exist. Being between two identical rooms it would have made more sense, Roger thought, for it to exist than not—but clearly it did not exist.  
Curiosity temporarily sated he returned to the comically motionless stairs and shoved his hands in his pockets. He walked through the den and peered into the kitchen. He saw Earl standing closely behind Alopay watching with what looked like a combination of pain and horror as she attempted to make some kind of meal. Roger wasn’t hungry anyway.

He turned down the hallway on the ground floor of the lodge and there were only three doors—two on the left and one on the right. The one on the right was at the very far end and it was the one Alopay had come from. A quick glance into the other’s showed a master bedroom and a large closet. 

Roger stood momentarily outside the final room, bathed in the gold light from within. He wasn’t sure why the room made him nervous but boy did it. He rubbed his fingers against the marble in his pocket and again felt something like a surge of confidence. 

He stepped into Alopay’s studio and his eyes went wide.

THAT was a BOAT.

A BOAT.

He felt dwarfed by the massive size of the vessel in front of him. How had it gotten there? How was it going to get out!? The ceiling was far too tall—if it was under one of the rooms upstairs he would have seen that large mast pole in the floor and if not he should have been able to see the high roof from outside. Neither case was true.

He stepped forward and narrowed his eyes—not exactly squinting, but kind of close, in the same family of expressions really—reaching out to touch the intricate carvings all along the hull of the ship. They were beautiful shapes, smooth to the touch and intriguing. The felt to Roger like some kind of celebration, like dancing.

“She’s been my favorite so far, I think,” came Alopay’s voice from behind him. In spite being so tense earlier the boy was not startled by her sudden voice.

“You made this?” he asked incredulously.

“Yup. Hauled the wood myself from the forest. It’s just a silly little hobby,” Alopay waved off-handedly.

Roger glanced sidelong at her as she moved to stand next to him, reaching out herself to touch the side of the ship. She seemed much more together now than she had been earlier.

“Is—is this what’s in the yard? Ships?”

“Yup! I’m never quite sure what to do with them when I’m done,” Alopay continued, “I mean there isn’t a body of water around worthy of them… so they go sit out on the dunes in the back. Your father and his friends used to play on them all summer long, jumping from deck-to-deck, swinging from the mast poles like little pirates.”

Roger tilted his head. 

“Wh-what was he like?”

“Oh, like most little boys I imagine,” Alopay turned to Roger and winked. “He got into mischief but he had a good head on his shoulders. He was a boy scout, you know. You ever think about joining the scouts, Roger?”

“No-ope,” Roger said in a drawn out way, eyes moving back to the ship. 

“Hmm, suit yourself then. Teaches a lot of important skills, I mean not skills like ship building, but just as important.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Earl called from the kitchen.

“Oh, that must be Earl!” Alopay said happily, “you know he’s bringing over his best friend for his birthday today. We’re going to surprise him. Shhh!”

Roger smiled a little and followed his grandmother out of the room, pausing once more to glance at the ship over his shoulder. He could have sworn he saw the figurehead turn her head back around to face forward but he wasn’t sure.


	8. Chapter 8

Earl took a few steadying breaths and picked up his phone, dialing the number to Tourniquet from memory. Roger had left for school about an hour ago, and Alopay was busy in her studio with her ships. The chef sat down on the bottom stair with his heart racing. He had never been good at deception, not like this, he tended to have a guilt and regret complex and would be beating himself up for what he was about to do for weeks if not longer.

The receiver clicked.

“Tourniquet, Gil speaking, how may I—”

“Gil? It’s-it’s Earl,” Earl pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and tried to keep his lips apart as he spoke. He was attempting to sound congested and swollen.

“Uh, no, it’s not. Earl doesn’t sound like that,” Gil said confidently.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I think—I think—” Earl paused to glance down the hall, assuring himself like a misbehaving child that his mother was not eavesdropping, “I think I may have a case of throat spiders.”

“Ugh!”

“I—I won’t be able to come in for my shift today. Can-can you pull a double?”

“Switch shifts?”

“Y-yeah, sure, of course.”

“Tomorrow night then,” Gil said heavily. Earl wrinkled his eyebrows together.

“Isn’t—isn’t tomorrow night the opening of the Opera?”

“Uh huh,” Gil said slowly.

“O-oh. Uhm, isn’t attendance mandatory?”

“Yes, unless…” 

“Unless?”

“Unless…?” Gil repeated in a tone that suggested she was twirling her hand in front of her in a ‘come on, fill in the blank’ gesture. 

Earl sucked on the back of his teeth for a second as the memory clicked into place.

“Oh, right, unless you’re covering a work shift for someone who’s not quite a friend but a little more than an acquaintance, like someone who could easily make things way more difficult for you than they have to be but might ultimately not have a lasting effect on things but still better to play it safe.”

“Correct.”

“Sure. Fine. Yes. I’ll—I’ll take your shift tomorrow. I wasn’t really looking forward to whatever an opera is anyway.”

“Slick. Drink lots of pesticides.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Earl felt no better as he ended the call and stuffed his phone into his pocket. He drew his hands over his face and stood up. He hesitated, wondering if he should bother his mother with a goodbye… but he figured she probably wouldn’t remember and was likely way too absorbed in her wood work to really process his farewell. Plus, he would see her again in a few hours.

He hoped; with the piece of paper burning a (not literal) hole in his back pocket he wasn’t really sure. 

He knew he needed to decode the message just like he knew he had to have it. He wasn’t any good with written language—secret police decoder was one badge he had never managed to get—but he knew someone who might be able to help. If they couldn’t decipher it than they could likely at least point Earl in the right direction.

The drive was long-ish as far as driving in Night Vale went. It wasn’t like he was visiting Larry Leroy or anything, but it certainly gave him more time to think than he wanted. 

He turned on the radio once, just briefly only to hear Cecil purring about Carlos and quickly turned it off. He really was working on that—he really, truly was—but it was kind of a project on his back burner at the moment… which meant he currently actually wasn’t working on it and so prolonged exposure only really made it worse and tugged those lines a little tighter together.

He’d have to face all that for dinner.

He sighed heavily and resigned himself to a quiet drive.

Earl pulled into the driveway and smiled a little to himself at how comfortable it seemed, how quaint and charming and he meant that literally not sarcastically. Not in the way most people mean when they say ‘quaint’ which is a code of sorts for poor or cheap or badly decorated. No, Earl literally meant attractively unusual or old-fashioned. He parked out of the way of the driveway in case any of the inhabitants needed to come or go.

Strolling up to the front door he felt a lump form in his throat. Oh, god, had he actually given himself throat spiders? Rubbing his throat as if it was suddenly sore he found himself hoping to whatever entity wanted to take pity on him that Cecil did not find out about what he was about to do. He lifted a hand and knocked on the door.

“Comin’!” came the jovial reply and a second later Steve Carlsberg opened the door. He tilted his head to one side.

“Uh—Mr.Carlsberg?” Earl began, voice cracking like puberty had snuck back up on him. He cleared his throat. 

“Please, Earl, you can call me Steve,” the man held out his hand and Earl shook it curiously.

“You-you know who I am?”

“Course I do, don’t everybody? Your scouts are on display! Mighty great achievement, hard not to know who you are after something like that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Earl rubbed the back of his neck. “Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all! It’s technically a holiday so I’m not workin’ today. C’mon in. Abby took Janice out for the afternoon so I hope you didn’t have anything to say to the girls.”

“No, actually, I came to talk with you.” Earl followed Steve inside graciously, pausing to kick off his shoes. The house interior seemed like some cobbled together child of the lodge and the home that Earl somehow now owned. There were parts that were a little older but the furnishings and adaptations for Janice were all sparkling and new and modern. 

“I’m not sure what a gentleman such as yourself could want with me but I’m happy to help in any way I can,” Steve said earnestly as he sat down. He indicated a very comfortable looking armchair for Earl, who said a quiet thank you as he took a seat.

“Uh, well, this is—this is kind of odd but, I didn’t really know who else to turn to,” Earl shifted for a moment before reaching into his back pocket. “I found this very strange letter and I—don’t understand it.”

“That’s how most letters are,” Steve said in confusion.

“No I mean—I don’t think anyone could understand it. It’s written in code and I think, no, I need to crack it,” Earl carefully unfolded the letter, staring at it for a moment before handing it over to Steve. “I think it may be the key to what happened to me, a-and Roger.”

Steve pulled his reading glasses off his shirt and set them on his nose. Earl watched as the other man’s eyes studied the message, taking in each word carefully. Steve ‘hmm’ed and turned the letter over. He turned it upside-down and read it again, ‘hmm’ing again in the same tone. He brough the letter close to his face and sniffed it. 

“Well?” Earl said breathlessly as Steve lowered the letter.

“What about this don’t you understand, exactly?”

Earl blinked. He shook his head and pursed his lips for a second.

“Th-the redacted parts. The-the parts that don’t make any sense?”

“Redacted?” Steve said in confusion, he leaned forward and held out the letter so that both men could look at it simultaneously. “Which parts?”

Earl slowly leaned forward and pointed to the first scribble of [REDACTED]. He watched as Steve looked at the letter and then at Earl and then back to the letter. He pulled his glasses down and frowned like he thought Earl might be sick or seeing things, or not seeing them as the case may have been.

Steve opened his mouth then and made a horrible, guttural, multi-pitched moaning sound. Earl sat up straight and blinked furiously. Steve watched him in concern.

“You all right, Earl?”

“Wh-what was that?” Earl gasped.

“What was what?” Steve looked around behind him expecting to see some spectre.

“N-no that sound. What you just said—the noise you just-just made?” Earl moved to his feet in worry. Steve looked more concerned.

“Are you feeling ok, Earl?”

“Wh-what does that say?” Earl asked quietly. He winced as Steve slowly, carefully enunciated the same guttural moan. The chef pressed his fingers to his temples and sat back down, hard. He rubbed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Earl?”

Earl leaned forward and grabbed the dangling letter, hoisting it and Steve’s hand into the air once more. With fierce determination Earl pointed to the next instance of [REDACTED]. He looked to Steve expectantly. 

Steve made another short sound, this one more like a throaty groan almost beyond the scope of human capabilities. It did not seem to strain Steve in any way, in fact he seemed to make the noise in a completely conversational tone. 

Each indicated, bracketed word or phrase Earl indicated was apparently only translatable into a serious of shouts, growls, moans, groans and whistles. Earl moaned himself as he fell back into the armchair and closed his eyes.

Steve looked at him with pity and true, honest concern. 

“I-I can imagine it might be hard for you to hear something like that,” Steve offered, looking like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. 

Earl nodded, taking the phrase for their literal meaning and not their figurative one. The sounds had been hard on his ears. He folded the paper up and stuffed it back into his pocket. 

“I guess I just—I still don’t understand,” Earl sighed, “I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about this damned letter. I need to know what it means.”

“Some mysteries are best left unsolved, Earl,” Steve said in a dark and sudden and knowing way. Earl nodded, even though he did not agree at all, especially not in this instance.

“Thanks for your help though, Steve.”

“Of course, Earl. Any friend of Cecil’s is a friend of mine.” Steve clapped a warm hand on Earl’s shoulder as they headed for the door.  
Earl paused as he stepped back into his shoes and fished his keys out of his pocket.

“Uhm, Steve? Can you do me one more favor?”

“Anything,” Steve said and in that moment he just about meant it.

“Don’t—Don’t tell Cecil I was here, ok?”

Earl did not like the smile on Steve’s face. It hurt him to see it. He understood Cecil’s misgivings about Steve—it was mostly about Janice really and Cecil had every right to be distrustful and wary, so did Abby to be sure—but Steve did try. He did really want to make amends.

“Won’t say a word,” Steve assured, turning and closing the door behind him.

Earl got back into his car and cast a quick glance towards the Carlsberg house. He then discretely pulled his recorder out of his pocket and switched it off, feeling like a spy and a double crosser. He rewound the tape and pressed play.

There it was—that sound. 

Earl rewound it and played it again and again and again and either his ears were getting tired of hearing it or he was getting closer to something because on playback number thirty he could have sworn that first noise was a name…

EARL.


	9. Chapter 9

Earl hesitated as he reached up to knock on the apartment door. He glanced to the side as Roger shifted his weight from one foot to the next. Cecil had insisted—with a barrage of texts and thinly veiled call-outs on his radio show—that the two of them stop by for dinner and it had to be that evening. Cecil was, after all, planning to leave Nightvale tomorrow.

Leave Nightvale for good.

Earl hoped he could eat around the sour pit in his stomach. He knocked twice.

Both Harlans glanced at the door as they were greeted with a cacophony of sounds. There was a crash and the shrill shriek of a cat, a clattering and clanging of large metal instruments, and a non-descript crash of some variety. After a second or two of silence Cecil, breathless, opened the door.

“Sorry about that,” the radio host apologized, waving them inside, “I can’t for the life of me find our doorbell so I’ve just been making the noises myself.”

“You didn’t have to exert yourself on our account,” Earl assured as he toed off his shoes and stepped inside. Once more Roger watched this custom of his father’s but did not do the same himself. 

“Of course I did. It also may be the last time I get to do it—customs in the Desert Otherworld are likely very different—so it was no trouble, really.”

Cecil closed the apartment door and then approached Earl, arms outstretched. The sous chef felt ice through his veins for a second as the other man wrapped his arms over him in an embrace. He managed to push through and inclined into the touch a little, wrapping his arms quickly around Cecil in return, and patting his friend platonicly on the back as they pulled away.

“You must be Roger,” Cecil said, his voice lilting ever-so-slightly as he addressed the young boy. He held out his hand and his tattoos seemed to glow a deep purple as Roger slipped his graying flesh against Cecil’s palm. 

“I’m Cecil Palm—”

“I know who you are,” Roger interrupted, not with intent to be rude but with that childlike insistence that adults treat them with respect. Roger was no dummy, after all. “Everyone in Nightvale knows who you are.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Cecil said with a snicker, “certainly not all of Nightvale listens to my little show.”

Roger tilted his head slowly to the side as he took in this strange man. Of course all adults were strange to him and that was far beyond the point of his existence seeming to have just popped up over the last few months. To most children all adults are strange. While adults can look at children with recollection that they were once in those tiny shoes—children lack this experience. Sure they contain the knowledge that one day they will be just alike this taller, wider, more aged versions of themselves but they do not have a frame of reference for this transformation. Adults know what it was like to be so young and innocent—though granted they forget the worst parts of being a child so that they may romanticize what it was like to be free and careless and without a burden at all—but no child knows what it is like to be an adult. Adults look at the young of their own species. Children look at an evolutionary path that makes sense only in the most basic of ways.

“Cecil, did you cook?” Earl said quietly after a moment, sniffing at the air. “That smells great.”

“I did! I mean I had to, really. I can’t invite THE Earl Harlan to my home and then order takeout—what kind of host would I be.”

“You didn’t have to—” Earl’s protest was cut off by a raised hand from Cecil.

“It was no trouble. If I’m being honest I just threw together something simple. I didn’t want to over-reach and embarrass myself,” Cecil laughed, “I had some ingredients lying around and, well, needed to clean things out anyway, you know?”

“What is it?” Roger asked timidly, with a hint of offense that he had not been consulted. He, like all children, had very particular taste buds.

“Beef Wellington,” Cecil said, his face looking just a little bit ashamed. He held up both hands, “I know, I know—even a baby could make Beef Wellington. At least I know I didn’t screw it up!” 

The trio filed into the small kitchen as led by Cecil. There were boxes littering the abode each one labeled with something helpful like MINE, HIS, OURS, IMPORTANT, LESS IMPORTANT, WHY DO WE STILL HAVE ALL THIS, and HIGHLY FLAMEABLE OH GOD WATCH OUT.

After subduing their chairs—which was a little more difficult than expected as Cecil and Carlos had very fancy chairs—Roger and Earl sat down across from each other. They met eyes as Cecil moved to gather the food and drinks. Earl tried to smile but he wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right. Roger’s expression did not change so he assumed he had smiled correctly.

Cecil happily served the Harlans and dinner began in earnest. The group was entertained by ceaseless Cecil as he told story after story in between bites and sips. He seemed overjoyed to have the company and Roger even seemed to be enjoying some of the talking, after all what kid doesn’t like to hear a story about municipal parks and the inevitable decay of the universe? 

As they winded down over desert, Cecil sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, his feathered boa a little askew on his shoulder.

“So, Roger, has your father told you about his time in the scouts?” the radio host pressed, eyes—full of mischief—trained on Earl.

“Uh, no,” Roger said. He felt like adding ‘we’ve only known each other a month, seems like hardly enough time for things like that’, but he refrained.

“Well you are in luck!”

“Cecil,” Earl groaned, poking at his desert with a fork.

“What would you like to hear about? The time he wrestled a bear for the soul of our troop leader? The time he grew a cedar tree in his spleen only to find out the badge was for PINE trees? Oh! The night he and I accidentally fell into another dimension and had to spend two whole nights there before we realized our trans-dimensional portal traversing badges were on upside down?”

“Dad wrestled a bear?” Roger said, sounding a little more than apathetic. The word ‘dad’ still sounded strange on his tongue, like a word in another language that he didn’t quite have the right syntax for.

“Did he ever!” Cecil beamed, leaning forward and slapping both palms flat on the table.

“Cecil, c’mon,” Earl grumbled, his cheeks flushing with a touch of color.

“Don’t be modest, Earl! He was the best scout in our troop, bar none. He completed every task, passed every test, earned every badge—”

“Not every badge,” Earl reminded tersely.

“Well obviously not every badge,” Cecil admitted, de-railed a little, “or you’d be enshrined as an Eternal Scout yourself instead of sitting here with us.”

‘Maybe that’s what should have happened,’ Earl thought to himself, less darkly and more curiously. 

“Plus it was just one little badge,” Cecil took a long sip of his wine.

“What badge?” Roger asked, looking from Earl to Cecil and back. The men looked at one another.

“Decoding,” they said in unison.

“Like puzzles and secret messages and stuff?” Roger continued, the gray of his skin shimmering slightly.

Earl nodded.

“Everything just became more and more tangled the longer I looked at it. I’m just not cut out for mysteries and figuring things out,” he shrugged.

“To be fair the tests were very hard,” Cecil admonished, putting a hand on Earl’s forearm affectionately. “I barely passed them.”

Cecil moved to stand and clean-up the dishes but Earl shot to his feet as if he’d been burned suddenly.

“N-no, let me get those,” he insisted, grabbing a handful of plates before Cecil could protest. “You’ve hosted, cooked and served, The least I can do is clean-up.”

Cecil held up his hands and smiled. His eyes drifted from Earl to Roger and softened a little. There really was no mistaking the blood relation between them—they looked identical. For Cecil it was almost like being back in middle school, sitting across the cafeteria table with Earl both of them spinning their grand plans about where they would be as adults and what kinds of things they would spend their time doing. Cecil had obviously followed his dreams and plans to the letter and was exactly where he’d said he would be—exactly where he’d wanted to be. But what about Earl? As Cecil stared for a long moment at Roger he tried to remember what Earl’s plans had been… what had Earl said he wanted to do?

“You’ve known my dad a long time?” Roger interrupted, voice quiet so as not be over-heard by Earl in the kitchen. Cecil nodded.

“Yup. For about as far back as I can remember.”

“Has he always been…” Roger’s voice trailed off. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking anyway. He sighed.

“I know it can’t be easy,” Cecil interpreted, leaning towards the boy, “but Earl is one of the best people I know. Plus, I know all his embarrassing secrets—so if you ever want to know anything about him just come find me!”

“Yeah but—you’re leaving Nightvale,” the boy reminded Cecil, indicating the teetering boxes. Cecil’s face twitched a little as he too looked around.

“Oh, right. Yes—Yes I am.”


	10. Chapter 10

Roger watched from the car as Earl and Cecil said goodbye. He wasn’t trying to spy on them, which is why he’d walked away first, but there wasn’t really anything else to look at. They hugged for a long while and Roger could see the glittering, brimming of tears in Cecil’s eyes as they pulled away. The radio host had walked them down to the parking lot of the apartment complex, seemingly eager for every last second of company he could garner from the duo. It had been nice, Roger had to admit.

The boy waved back to Cecil as the adults parted and Earl approached the car. Roger studied Earl’s face as his father blanched a little upon finding Roger in the front passenger’s seat instead of the back. The boy quickly looked away so as to clearly indicate it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. 

Earl got in without a word and they drove out into the night.

“The construction crew isn’t quite done with the house yet,” Earl said after a few moments of silence. “I was going to swing by to pick up a few things but then we’ll have to spend another night at the lodge.”

“Ok,” Roger said, staring out the window. Then, feeling the tide of curiosity coming in, “you’ve known Cecil a long time, huh?”

“Feels like forever,” Earl said easily, eyes focused on the road. “We met in elementary school and that was that. Middle school, high school, almost every summer. We were in band together, scouts, other various organized and dis-organized and criminally organized children’s programs.”

“You mean a lot to each other?” Roger continued, turning to glance at Earl.

“I suppose. I think—I think he means more to me than I mean to him. Not—not to say that’s bad, or anything just… After high school Cecil went abroad so we kind of lost touch. He traveled for a few years while I stayed and started training to take over the scouts. When he came back I kind of… I dunno, I expected us to return to how things were but—but they didn’t. Stupid thing to assume, I guess. Cecil had his plans and dreams and the radio station and I had the scouts… but I also had Cecil, always, almost constantly, on my radio. He didn’t have me but I had him. I dunno, I guess sometimes I let myself think we were still the same close friends as we were. It’s not fair to Cecil.”

“You,” Roger tilted his head, “you like him, don’t you?”

Earl jerked a little and glanced over at Roger. The boy raised his eyebrows and Earl slowly looked back to the road.

“Cecil is with Carlos now. I like Carlos, he seems like a good guy in spite of vanishing off to some Desert Otherworld for a year. Cecil seems… really happy.”

“Man that,” Roger sighed, clicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth, “that sucks.” He concluded sincerely, in the way a child is sincere about the one adult thing they think they understand—crushes and love. He hadn’t meant it about Cecil’s happiness, of course, and Earl knew that. He’d meant it about the situation in general—a sort of unrequited love as it were. It sucked, for sure, and there were few other words or phrases that could so accurately capture that emotion.

The corners of Earl’s mouth twitched a little as something like a grin tried to show itself. The drive became silent again but it was a lighter silence this time, softer, less silent. 

Roger wiggled his toes to wake them up as he started recognizing the houses on the block, their streets, their neighborhood. As their home came into view Roger saw the mounds of books piled in their lawn, removed from Earl’s bedroom. The books however were not nearly as interesting—no, not interesting, terrifying—as the figure crouched atop a pile closest to the house.

Roger could not make out any real discernable features save a slightly humanoid form and wings, open but not wide, moving but not flapping. 

“Dad,” Roger gasped, feeling the car slow, “what is that thing?” He looked away for a second to Earl who’s eyes were trained on the creature. Roger reached over and grabbed Earl’s sleeve, tugging on it.

“Is that a librarian? Wh-what’s it doing here?” Roger’s voice rose in panic pitch as he looked back to the creature and their car stilled a few feet from the driveway. The headlights of the car spilled just shy of the beast’s feet, illuminating the ground, the broken earth and the discarded literature. 

Earl’s eyes could not move from the creature. They shook and vibrated and his pupils nearly spun in his eye sockets. It hadn’t been a dream, had it? It hadn’t been a hallucination either then… none of it. He’d woken the morning after falling out his window on the ground outside. He was fine, not a bump, scratch or bruise aside from the protesting of his middle aged body against having slept in such an odd position. That had been it for days—no more Librarian, no more odd meetings in the middle of the night where things were said but not said or maybe just mutually imagined. 

And now here it was. Visible to not just Earl but Roger. Crouching outside their home… waiting.

Earl suddenly slammed both hands on the center of the steering wheel. The loud horn caused Roger to shout and the beast to rear back. As Earl continued to sound the horn Roger covered his ears and the beast began to stumble backwards, off the mound of books and away. Earl leaned his shoulders, his chest, his whole body into the act of pressing on the horn until, eventually, the creature slithered away into the night.

As the echo of the horn died down—and the lights on neighboring houses turned on—Earl glanced over at Roger. The boy was slowly lowering his hands from his ears, eyes still trained on the spot the librarian had just occupied. Earl reached over gently, cautiously and put a hand on Roger’s shoulder. The boy jumped and looked worriedly over at Earl.

“It’s gone,” he said with a margin more confidence than he felt, “I’m going to pull in and check it out. You stay in the car.”

“A-ARE YOU SURE?” Roger shouted, knowing that whispers were the language of librarians and he did not want to do anything that might call the beast back. “ARE YOU SURE IT’S SAFE?”

“Yeah,” Earl said, nodding as he parked in the driveway and turned off the car. “Just—just give me a minute to walk around, ok?”

“OK,” Roger nodded stiffly.

The boy could still feel his body shaking from the adrenaline of the experience—and his ears were still ringing from the sudden blaring of the horn. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking through all the windows of the car in quick succession. 

He trained his eyes on the form of Earl Harlan as the chef carefully ascended and traversed across the multitude of books on the lawn. Earl seemed to stumble and hesitate a little as he approached the very spot the creature had crouched, but he quickly moved past it. As he turned the corner and vanished from sight Roger considered holding his breath.

He was concerned, then, as his window began fogging up. It was quick and thick and none of the other windows seemed to be condensing at all. He leaned far away from the glass as his view was completely obstructed. Roger could still see out of all the other windows but not his own. As he glanced out the front windshield to the far corner of the house—praying Earl would appear immediately—he heard a sound behind him. 

It was a sound like the scraping of ice, like glass slowly splintering.

Roger did then hold his breath and he felt a warm breeze over the back of his neck. 

The sound continued, becoming faster and more aggressive. Roger kept his eyes locked on the corner of the house. The noise continued.

The scraping became a sharp whistling like a tea kettle about to boil over. It sounded like an imminent explosion just over his right shoulder.

Roger threw himself down across the front seats, his head buried in the driver’s seat cushion. He covered his head with his arms and tucked his legs up as the sound grew and grew and grew and grew and—

“Roger?” Earl asked in quick concern as he opened the driver’s side door to find his son huddled there. The boy quickly sat up and turned around and Earl followed his son’s gaze.

Scrawled—as if with a claw—in the fog on the window was the warning:

STAY AWAY FROM THE LODGE.


	11. Chapter 11

Earl was at work when it happened: The Opera. He was prepping meat when Hiriam McDaniels revealed himself. He was chopping vegetables when Cecil was used. He was taste-testing broth when everything ended. He was glancing nervously at the clock when Janice happily exclaimed that Uncle Carlos was ‘right over there’. He felt a small pang of sorrow at missing the opera. He was friends with Old Woman Josie—everyone was—and felt bad for missing such a tremendous thing.

It was better this way, though, he just didn’t know it. No-one really knew it. Earl would have gone, had he been able, and things would have been different. Maybe not everything, just little things that would seem insignificant but in the end would be very, very significant. But that hadn’t happened, wouldn’t happen.

Earl took a quick break about half-way through his shift and holed up in the employee bathroom. Sitting on the commode he pulled his phone from his back pocket and sent another quick text to Roger.

‘Hey, Rodge. You still doing ok?’ 

They’d both gotten very little sleep the previous night. The house was still unfit for sleeping and neither of them felt like they could go to the lodge. Sadly Earl agreed it would be fine that way as Alopay likely wouldn’t remember to expect them. They had slept in Earl’s car; Roger curled up in the backseat while Earl leaned his back as much as he could and tried to rest. 

To further the frazzled state of things in all the running around and mess and confusion Earl had completely forgotten to find a babysitter for Roger. It hadn’t dawned on him until about an hour before his shift and at that point everyone who was worth anything was at the opera. He’d asked Roger if he wanted to go home or maybe to the lodge but neither option seemed good and safe. Home felt safer until they remembered the librarian and then the lodge felt safer until they remembered the warning.

In the end Earl had given Roger a decent chunk of cash and dropped him off at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. It seemed safe enough—it was mostly empty too as most people were at the opera. Roger would be able to eat if he was hungry and ample outlets for entertainment.

‘im ok’

‘Good. If they’re not done with the house yet I was thinking of maybe renting a hotel room? I don’t think I could spend another night in the car.’

‘me ethr’

Earl loosed the tie in his hair and combed his fingers through it nervously for a moment. He’d have to tie it back up to go back out to the kitchen but for the moment he could relax and release some of the tension in the back of his neck. 

His phone chimed again and he startled. He was not expecting another text, least of all from Roger.

‘what abt lodge’

Earl frowned. He let his thumbs hang over the phone for a moment as he considered his reply, feeling like a true parent for the first time since discovering he was one. He didn’t want to promise it would be safe because he didn’t know that it would but he also didn’t want to let on that he was scared too because he was. He did want to go to the lodge, for a number of reasons, but the looming threat hung over him like a miasma.

‘I’m not sure,’ Earl texted back after a long period of silence. 

‘u scared?’

Earl could tell by the rarely used punctuation that it was a legitimate question and not sarcasm or an insult. Again his thumbs hung for a second while he formulated a reply.

‘Honestly? A little. There’s just too much I don’t know. We didn’t get badges for correctly interpreting threatening messages—that’s a girl scout thing.’

‘its ur home’, Earl stared at the words as they slowly registered. 

‘ur mom is there’. The chef felt hot tears burning in his eyes. 

‘dunno who mssg wz from but cnt let them win’

‘You really want to go to the lodge?’ 

‘yea gotta fite 4 whts urs rite?’

‘djkl’ one of Earl’s errant tear drops said, sending the text before he could correct it.

‘???’

‘Finger slipped, sorry. We’ll talk more when I get off tonight, ok?’

‘yea’

Earl’s fingers once more hung over the keypad of his phone. Something in his gut told him what the appropriate next response was, like recalling old lessons on how to hold a conversation. ‘I love you’ he should have texted. It was about as true as it wasn’t true, he supposed. He felt like he maybe did love Roger as much as a father could love a son he’d only discovered a few months ago.

Neither one had said it yet, though, and was a text message really the best way to cross that bridge? Was it maybe too much, too soon? He felt like he was finally making headway with Roger and worried suddenly that such a declaration—regardless of its level of truth—would just push them back a step. 

Feeling a little like he’d left something unfinished, Earl tied his hair back and returned to the kitchen to finish out his shift. 

He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on cooking though. Luckily the bad reviews for Tourniquet that night would be washed out by the unabashed praise the opera would receive. No one would read past about twelve glowing reviews to see the complaints that someone’s pork had insulted them, that there had been an eraser in someone’s soup, and that on at least four separate occasions random cutlery burst into flames. (And only the staff working that night would know that the eraser in the soup had been a deserved addition after the way the woman had treated her server. She was lucky that was the only thing they did to her; Earl had to quell some rather violent alternatives.)

Earl Harlan’s mind was wrapped up in so many questions, more questions than he’d ever thought he could have in his mind at once without exploding. He felt like he was going to explode, truthfully and wondered if that’s why the knives and forks and spoons kept combusting. He kept thinking on the recording of his conversation with Steve in the glove compartment of his car; the note which either made no sense or only made no sense to Earl; the librarian stalking his house, trying to talk with him?; and the warning to stay away from his family home. 

He even wanted to tell himself that he’d be fine with just one of those answers but he knew that was a lie. He knew not a single answer would sate him anymore. He needed to know everything—not in an omniscient way—and he felt like it was definitely all connected to his life, his job, his home, his age and his son.


	12. Chapter 12

Earl Harlan gave a slightly guilty wave to Teddy Williams as he walked into the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. He hadn’t said anything to Teddy specifically but he knew Teddy knew the comings and goings of his business and it would have been hard to ignore the one child who’d been there about nine and a half hours without supervision. Luckily of all the things Roger was turning out to be, well behaved was one of them. Earl wondered if that was his own influence or the boy’s mothers (Margaret, he thought, maybe).

He shoved his hands into his pants pockets as he stepped through the bowling alley into the arcade. There were not a lot of people bowling and there were even fewer in the arcade. It didn’t take him long to find Roger, who was seated in a corner booth as far away from everything as he could get. There was an empty plate in front of him, a far-too-large soft drink, what looked to be a spool of half-eaten cotton candy and a giant chartreuse sparrow plushie that was assuredly one of the things a kid could buy with ample game tickets.

Earl approached the table slowly, watching as Roger looked up from his phone. He wanted to say there was something like relief or happiness on the boy’s face for a second but he told himself it was most likely the flickering strobe lights in the arcade playing tricks on his eyes.

“Sorry I’m late,” Earl offered. Roger just shrugged and began to gather his things. Earl helped him clear the table as the boy managed to wrangle the sparrow under his arm.

“Goodbye, Mr.Williams,” Roger said with a wave as the duo left. This only made Earl feel guiltier as certainly that was an indication that Teddy Williams had indeed talked with Roger at some point during his stay. What did Teddy think of Earl now? Did he think he was a bad parent? It wasn’t all Earl’s fault, you know, he had fatherhood dropped into his lap suddenly. Not to mention a shift coverage he hadn’t been planning on.

“So are we going to the lodge?” Roger asked as the duo stepped out into the parking lot, away from any other ears.

“I uh—you really want to?” Earl glanced over as his son shrugged again, squeezing the sparrow in the process so that it emitted a low chortle.

“I dunno,” came what was becoming a predictable response, “but I don’t like being scared.”

“I don’t think anyone likes being scared,” Earl unlocked the car and frowned a little as he saw Roger head for the backseat.

“That’s not true. People like horror movies and haunted houses,” the boy said smartly, tossing his sparrow into the backseat along with his bookbag. He closed the door and rounded to the front passenger’s seat.

“Good point,” Earl said with a smirk, buckling himself into the car. “Well then, yeah. I guess… Do you need anything from home?”

“Nope,” Roger said, buckling his own seat belt and turning to Earl. “Plus, I don’t have school tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, something about a water leak in the stairwell? They can’t find out what’s causing it,” Roger paused and scrolled through his phone for a second. He then leaned towards Earl and played a quick video. It was a shaky recording of a spout of water simply pouring from mid air and flooding the stairs below.

“So? The lodge?”

“The lodge,” Earl nodded.

“Wicked,” said Roger with a smile.

Nothing tried to stop them on the way to the lodge—no librarians, no road blocks, no dead animals dropped from a Glow Cloud (All Hail). The windows never fogged up, no more messages were relayed, and honestly both the Harlans felt a strange kind of peace until they pulled onto the final stretch of old road. The tension set in slowly but it wasn’t suffocating, just uncomfortable.

“Want to hear a joke?” Roger asked, voice slightly shaky.

“Almost always,” Earl replied earnestly, gripping the steering wheel perhaps a little too tight.

“Why is six afraid of seven?”

“I-I don’t know. Why?”

“It’s not. Numbers aren’t sentient and therefore are incapable of fear.”

Both Harlans began laughing. It was a very, very funny joke but even still they laughed probably a little harder and a little longer than it warranted. The car was still warm with their laughter as they pulled up to the lodge and Earl turned off the ignition. It looked—like the lodge. The masts littering the backyard swayed like dancing in the backyard, the porch light attracted a normal number of moths and hikers; there were no creeping librarians or hidden murderers. Or maybe there were—they would be hidden after all.

“Ready?” Earl said, smiling his bravest and hopefully most nonchalant smile at Roger. Roger could only manage to nod back. They both exited the car and started towards the front door when the boy back tracked and quickly pulled his sparrow from the backseat. As he returned to his father’s side Roger walked closer to Earl than he had yet dared. The older man swatted away the moths and hikers, earning squeaks from the hikers and cursing from the moths. He unlocked the front door and ushered Roger inside while he toed off his shoes.

“Mom?” Earl called into the pervasive darkness. It was a little after ten in the evening but his mother had always been a night owl—and if by chance she was sleeping he knew she could sleep through anything so he wouldn’t wake her up by yelling for her.

“No answer,” Roger said and Earl wasn’t sure if that was relief or breathless fear on the boy’s voice. 

“She’s probably just asleep,” Earl said as he led them through the living room. “Look, the studio light is off. She’s definitely asleep.”

“Ok, yeah,” Roger nodded. That made sense. He clutched the sparrow to his chest tightly.

“Do you want me to walk you upstairs?” Earl offered, pausing in the middle of the living room with his hand hovering just a few inches from Roger’s back. He met his son’s eyes as the boy nodded vigorously.

They slowly began to ascend the stairs. Earl had never remembered the lodge to feel so imposing and he felt foolish. So someone had scrawled at them to stay away—what did that even mean? Maybe it was someone playing a prank. Maybe the message had been meant for someone else and it was about some other lodge and it just happened that the message could also have made sense to the accidental recipients. The lodge was safe. It had been his safe place his whole life and nothing was about to change that.

Roger’s grip on the sparrow relaxed as he climbed stair after stair and the only sound was his own footsteps. He began to breathe normally, his shoulders relaxing and his mind unwinding. Cecil Palmer had told him his father was a great boy scout and that meant he had all kind of survival skills—what kind of chance did a librarian have against a near eternal scout?

The Harlans had almost completely relaxed by the time they stepped into the room Roger had claimed for himself. Earl flicked on the light and they took a second to glance around the room but their guards had dropped and they no longer felt the need to check behind every door, curtain or chair. 

Roger walked over to sit heavily on the bed, bouncing a little. He placed the sparrow on the mattress behind him and looked up at Earl, still standing near to the doorway.

“Who’s room was this?” Roger asked, “when you lived here?”

“Uh, this was the guest room,” Earl recalled, glancing around as if to confirm to himself that his memory was correct. “My parents slept downstairs. I was at the end of the hall. Dad’s office was the other room and then this room—the guest room.”

“What about the fourth room?”

A strange sound echoed Roger’s question. It was like a small hailstone falling somewhere in the distance.

“The bathroom?” Earl asked in confusion.

“No, the fourth bedroom. The one that’s right between the two other rooms—” Roger’s voice trailed off as the thump—or thud—echoed him again. He could see that Earl was distracted by the noise as well.

Th-thwack.

Th-thwack.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!

Roger leapt up and darted across the room as Earl held out his arms. The boy latched himself to Earl’s leg as the sound increased in frequency, suddenly sounding far too close and far too frantic. Both pairs of eyes darted back and forth around the room for they were certain then that the noise was coming from somewhere in the room. They could see no movement, they could hear nothing but the rapid thwacking.

And then another sound…

Clunk. Shhhhhh—plop.

Clunk. Shhhhhh-plop.

“D-dad…” Roger gasped, slowly lifting his hand to point.

Earl followed his son’s finger and saw a bowl on the far dresser. He watched as slowly a marble peeked over the edge of the bowl and landed on the dresser (clunk.) It rolled across (shhhhhh) and fell to the carpeted floor (plop). Earl and Roger stared at the marbles on the carpet as they spun around as if trying to orient themselves to their new location then, as if on command, they all turned to face the Harlans. Earl and Roger did not know how they knew the marbles were looking at them—but they were. Oh god they were.

Frozen to the spot they watched as more and more marbles pooled out of the bowl, slid across the dresser and joined the growing mass on the carpet. More and more, bigger and bigger. The dull plopping of a marble on carpet became a sharp sound as marbles began hitting marbles as there was no more floor space to land upon. There were too many marbles. They would not have all fit in that bowl.

Then

The marbles

Started

Rolling

Forward…


	13. Chapter 13

“Run,” Earl said without any force behind it, “run!” he amended, much more forcefully. He not-so-gently encouraged Roger to move past him and out the door first, keeping a quivering eye on the growing, rolling mass of marbles. It was easily the size of a twin mattress at that point and still more were falling from the bowl, no longer in single drips but in a steady stream of semi-transparent and colorful children’s toys.

Earl started to follow Roger then, his heart thumping painfully up his throat like spicy kimchi, he darted back to the room. Frozen for a second by the roiling mass he broke free of the spell and stepped just one foot inside the room to grab the doorhandle. He slammed it shut and locked it. He wasn’t sure if marbles could open doors—he hadn’t really given any thought to the capabilities of marbles before then—but it would at least slow them down.

Roger was already half-way down the stairs by the time Earl thundered after him. The careless crescendo of their feet on the stairs was one-upped by the horrendous turmoil of a wooden door splintering open and exploding. Showers of splinters rained down on Earl from behind as he covered the back of his head, shouting in the way one does when faced with something as absurd as it is terrifying.

Roger nearly fell as he leapt off the last two stairs. He glanced towards the front door and then back over his shoulder at Earl who was just a few steps behind him. His father waved him forward and Roger thought he shouted “GO!” but with the sounds of marbles rolling from upstairs it was hard to tell for sure.

The back of Earl’s neck stung but he was pretty sure it wasn’t anything too serious. He too leapt down the last two steps and stumbled as he landed in the den, his bare feet not meeting the pre-digested mulch very softly. He straightened himself up as he watched Roger yank open the front door and scream.

Earl could not recall the last time he had moved so fast—he felt like one second he was at the bottom of the stairs and the next he was pulling Roger to his chest at the front door. He hoisted the boy into his arms as he stared out at the rain of marbles dripping from the roof, gathering in a pool at the bottom of the stairs and slowly but surely creeping up the stairs and heading for the lodge. Earl felt Roger tighten tiny arms around his neck and hide his head.

The chef slammed the front door shut and turned around just as the crest of a wave of marbles began down the stairs. The noise was immediate and deafening and even Earl—who had once listened to music so loud he’d nearly deafened himself—winced and shouted. 

“What do we do!” shouted Roger somewhere near Earl’s ear, the proximity the only way Earl was able to hear him.

Earl’s eyes darted around the lodge frantically. How did you fight off marbles? He remembered getting his Combat Against Inanimate Objects badge quicker than anyone else in his troop but marbles had never come up. Marbles never came up! 

His eyes fell on the far hallway and the studio doorway—still darkened. He sucked in a breath.

“Hang on!” He shouted reaching up to put a hand on the back of Roger’s head, wrapping his other even tighter around the boy’s waist as Roger’s legs wrapped around his stomach.

Earl let out a battle cry as he ran forward into the den, almost directly at the marble tsunami eroding the stairs. He turned at the last second and dashed into the empty hallway. As he ran he heard windows shattering as more and more marbles began flooding into the lodge from the upper floor. 

He kicked the studio door open and nearly flung himself inside. He set Roger down and fell against the door, locking it behind him. His son looked up at him with wide eyes.

“That won’t stop them,” Roger said with the heaviness of confidence.

“Follow the ship,” Earl instructed, pointing deep into the dark studio, “the garage doors at the other end open into the backyard and there’s no floor above the garage. The button for the doors is on the wall to the left!”

“Wh-what about you?!”

“I’m going to try and hold the door for as long as I can!”

Earl and Roger met eyes. ‘I should have texted I love you,’ they both thought simultaneously without the other’s knowledge. The house began to shake and quiver under the assault. There was a loud crack and both Harlans looked up at the ceiling.

“Roger, GO!” Earl shouted and felt relief as the boy took off.

Roger ran as faster than he had ever run before, feeling like his feet didn’t fully hit the ground between each step and instead he was just willing his body forward with the swinging of his legs. The shapes and carvings on the ship to his right began to move in a jerky way like stilted animation until the frame rate synced with his speed and became a rocking, waving ocean scene with waves cresting and receding beside him as he ran.

After what felt like far too long he saw the two large white doors in the distance. He slowed to a stop, realizing he could barely breathe but knowing he didn’t yet have time to catch his breath. He ran straight for one of the doors and slammed his fists into it, pounding on it in panic as his overstimulated mind tried to work out the next step.

Roger shoved himself away from the door and fairly lunged to the side as he remembered Earl’s instructions. He began feeling around the dark walls for anything that felt like a button, finding himself pushing on cobwebs and knots in the wall. Finding no button he threw both hands to the task and began pounding in desperation.

His head jerked back the way he’d come as he heard Earl shout and he tried slamming on the wall harder and faster. He heard the door give way and the crash of marbles onto the uncarpeted floor. He heard the pounding of Earl’s feet and the clatter of the glass beads on Earl’s tail. Where was the button? Where was the button? WHERE WAS THE BUTTON?!

“Roger!” Earl shouted as his son came into view.

“Dad!” the boy sobbed, “I can’t find the button!”

“Jump!” Earl gasped, pointing, “it’s right above you!”

Roger turned back to the wall and craned his head upwards and could just barely make out the edges of the switch. He bent his knees and sprung up as high as he could, slapping the sickest high five he’d ever slapped in his life.

The sound of his feet finding ground again was echoed by the groaning and grinding of the doors responding. Roger moved back towards salvation, wringing his hands. He began looking towards the slowly widening gap to his father and back.

“Roll!” Earl instructed, waving his son forward.

The chef could not remember what it felt like to breathe as he watched his son drop to the ground and tumble out of sight, just barely making it through the gap. Behind him he could hear the marbles crashing through the ship like sentient missiles. He felt one hit his heel.

Earl eyed the gap and prayed he would fit, prayed it would be open enough—but if not at least his son had made it. At least Alopay had not been home. He turned to the wall and punched the Close Door button with enough strength to break it. As he heard the gears grind to a halt and reverse he threw himself—baseball style—to his stomach and slid out from under the garage doors, face-first into the pebbles of the driveway in the back.

“Dad!” Roger shouted again, moving forward to help Earl to his feet. The duo moved back slowly from the lodge, eyes still wide and hearts still galloping. The lodge seemed to swell like a water balloon, walls pushing outwards and bending in ways wood should not bend. The plink of marbles hitting the sand filled the night sky. 

“C’mon, we’re not safe until we get out of here,” Earl said as he gripped Roger’s shoulder. “We need to get to the car.” 

As Roger nodded they turned and started to run around the side of the house but they did not get far. A few steps forward and the ground shook once, powerfully, then again and both Harlans stumbled. Earl reached out to steady Roger as the thump continued twice more, a little faster now. The lodge shook, the sand shook, the forest of ships behind them shook.

Slowly from around the front of the house came the… thing. It was glimmering in the reflected light from the moon and stars, made of thousands and thousands of semi-translucent marbles. It was sort of human shaped in that it had two legs, something that looked like a head, and two upper appendages but it was clearly not trying its hardest to impersonate one—for starters it had no facial features or clothes. It was also taller than the lodge and about as wide as a car.

Earl slowly pushed Roger behind him as they both started taking slow steps backwards. The thing stepped forward, sturdy though it was made of constantly rotating glass balls. Each step left a crater in the sand. 

The Harlans were pushed back further and further towards the ships, further and further away from Nightvale and relative safety. Roger clutched the back of his father’s shirt with a white knuckled fist and Earl gripped the boy’s shirt shoulder hard enough to rip it.

As the marble giant stepped past the garage doors a dark shadow zipped out from between the ships. It looked at first like the strange ink blot in the corner of your eye, the one that you can just almost focus on that keeps moving when you try to look at it. It streaked like lightning across the dark yard and stopped in front of the giant where it stood up, wings stretching wide and hissing wildly.

“I-is that… the librarian?” Roger gasped as he and Earl came to a stop. The chef could only nod.

The librarian was smaller than the marble giant but honestly they were about tied for Earl as far was which was more terrifying. The librarian, at least, had some sense of familiarity to it. It shrieked at the marble giant in the same way it shrieked at anyone who dared try to return a book late.

“Wow,” a voice from behind Earl and Roger startled them again and they both turned to watch as Alopay stepped from the shadows. 

“Somebody really lost their marbles,” she laughed jovially, seemingly not upset by any of the scene before her. She smiled at Roger and Earl, kind eyes squinted shut. “Do I know you?” She asked pleasantly. 

Earl did not have time to process any of that and so he turned back to the stand off. The librarian’s wings were still spread wide, vibrating like the tail of a rattlesnake in an attempt to frighten off the marble giant. Could marbles be frightened? 

As Earl watched he saw the librarian cock its head back towards the trio, eyes just visible in the light from the stars. He watched as it looked at him, Roger and then Alopay and something seemed to change in the creature’s mind. It launched forward and leapt upon the marble giant’s chest, digging in with its many claws and tentacles. One appendage thrust inside the body of the marble giant and began writhing around. 

Earl suspected it was attempting to damage the creature from inside and was not expecting it to retreat with a single marble in its suction cups. Turning its head back towards the trio the librarian hurled the marble at Alopay with a fierceness that suggested it supposed the marble was a lethal weapon. Earl moved to dive in front of his mother—knowing it was unlikely but not impossible for the marble to actually kill her—but he was too slow: Alopay stumbled back a step as the marble connected dead center in her chest.

“Oh, ow!” the elderly woman gasped, bringing her hands up to the marble as it appeared lodged in her body. To Earl’s horror the marble slowly began to seep into his mother until it vanished, completely absorbed by her.

“Mom!” Earl yelped.

Roger leaned around his father to watch his grandmother as she seemed to stumble a little more, clutching her chest. His worry turned to confusion as she suddenly straightened up and glared at the marble giant and what it had done to her lodge. She began walking forward.

“Mom, no!” Earl shouted, grabbing her shoulder. Much to his surprise she shrugged him off and continued forward confidently. Earl frowned and crouched down next to Roger, holding his son tightly to his chest—at a loss at what to do now.

As Alopay neared the two creatures the librarian roared. It climbed its way up the body of the marble giant until it was perched on its head, then it launched forward and into the sky, vanishing from sight. The giant tilted towards Alopay and the roiling thunder grew loud in some kind of roar or growl. 

The old woman lifted her hand and snapped her fingers.

The marbles all clattered lifelessly to the sand, the lodge returned to its normal shape and stillness though marbles still dripped from the windows, one at a time, slowly, and then stopping all together. 

Alopay bent down and picked up a marble as it rolled towards her foot. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger and held it up to the sky, letting the moonlight filter through its translucent bits. She smiled and glanced over at Earl.

“It seems these are my marbles,” she chuckled.


	14. Chapter 14

“Ok let me—let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Earl said as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Across the table from him Alopay sighed playfully and sipped her coffee.

The trio had retreated to The Moonlight All Nite Diner. Alopay insisted that the house was safe and that they were in no more danger but that didn’t cut it. It wasn’t that Earl and Roger didn’t believe her—they did—but they had almost been crushed under a sea of marbles inside the lodge and were really not keen to step back inside. Near death experiences tend to sour the immediate area for a little while.

They’d ordered some coffee, some waffles and asked for a booth as tucked away as possible. Roger had eaten his waffles and fallen asleep, face covered in syrup, on the booth next to Earl. His legs were stretched out over his father’s lap. 

“The marbles are—or they hold—memories; everyone’s memories, all marbles,” Earl began, now rubbing his temples. “When someone forgets something a marble is made and we, that is our family, is in charge of making sure none of Nightvale’s marbles fall into the wrong hands?” Earl slowly glanced up at his mother to find her beaming at him.

“Correct!”

“Wh-why haven’t you… why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“Oh I did but it seems like you don’t remember or I told you but it was a different you and the same me. I had to tell you at some point because I knew you’d have to take up the job after me; you were always supposed to take up the job after me.”

“Then-then how come you’ve never once mentioned it to me? I mean—in my recent memory? We don’t talk about it, at all…”

“Oh that’s because I forgot about the whole thing,” Alopay waved dismissively. “You see when someone forgets something and it becomes a marble that means it doesn’t belong to them anymore. If they somehow come into contact with that specific marble again they can borrow the memory for a short while but they’ll just forget it again—that’s how it works. The marble that hit me in the chest at the lodge was my memory of our family’s duty to this town—so at least for a little while I will remember it.” Her smile was wide and genuine.

Earl ran his hands down his face, a headache starting to thump at the base of his skull. His expression softened a little as he felt his mother take his hand and search for his eyes.

“I know this is hard for you, Earl, but I need to tell you what I can before I forget again,” her voice was not sad—at least not sad for herself—but steadfast. Earl nodded.

“Ok, yeah, g-go ahead,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out the recorder that Alopay had suggested he bring with them to the diner. He clicked record and smiled at his mother.

“Memories are very powerful things, Earl, but they are not absolute. Think of them like branches on a bonsai tree—if left alone they grow along their own path, doing what is best for them and bending to no-one’s will, but we are rarely allowed to grow on our own path. Your friends, your family, your environment, the air you breathe, all of it is like a sculptor bending and wiring your branches—your memories—into a specific shape. These branches can easily break but they can also easily be fused with other branches to create something new. Leaves and small twigs can be trimmed to further alter the shape of a branch until it is something completely different from what it was. Memories are fickle things.”

Alopay reached into her pocket and pulled out three marbles. She set them on the table in front of her coffee cup and, to Earl’s relief, they did not move an inch. 

“Each time someone forgets something a new marble is made, and each marble is completely unique. Even if multiple people forget the same event at the same time their marbles will be as different as the very first marble ever created and the very last marble that will ever exist. A marble can be temporarily absorbed and the event temporarily remembered, however one can only absorb their own marbles.”

“Anyone can do this?” Earl interrupted.

“Yes anyone can absorb a marble but it’s not quite as easy as tossing a marble at someone—that’s where our family’s unique talents come into play. You see we can call forth specific marbles if we know the memory ourselves. For example let’s say you forget this conversation tomorrow but I remember it. I could reach into a pile of marbles and remember this here and now and the marble holding your memory of this event will wiggle and roll its way into my fingers. I could then touch you with the marble and grant you temporary recollection of the memory.”

“Bu-but then couldn’t you—” Earl paused and chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, giving Alopay a moment to sip her coffee. He wasn’t sure how to phrase what he was going to say next.

“Couldn’t I cure myself?” Alopay suggested, watching as Earl nodded sadly. “I can’t find marbles for things I can’t remember, Earl. You can’t be vague and you can’t find a marble for a memory you don’t have. I couldn’t reach in to find my own memories because I don’t remember them—not even if I once did and I know I once did. I couldn’t reach in and think ‘remember the last time you changed a lightbulb’ because I don’t remember the last time I changed a lightbulb. In order to find the memory the person looking for it has to still have the memory.”

“Oh,” Earl said in a defeated sort of whisper. “So then, I couldn’t—I couldn’t reach in and pull out your memory of the day Roger was born?”

Alopay shook her head slowly.

“No. Neither of us remember that now, we’ve both lost those marbles.”

“We could stumble upon them though, couldn’t we? If all we have to do is touch one of our marbles to re-remember it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose but the chances are slim. The chances are also equally as likely that you’ll remember something else, something terrible, something you’re better off forgetting—And Earl?” Alopay reached over and took Earl’s hand, her voice becoming serious, “that is a big part of our job… Some things should not be remembered, Earl. No matter how painful it is to not remember or to know something is missing.” 

“How—” Earl tried, his voice breaking as he tried to move past the surge of unknowable emotions within himself at that very moment. He cleared his throat and tried again, “how are the marbles—I mean how do we keep so many? How did that… all that happen? What exactly happened?”

“Someone must always know about the marbles,” Alopay said seriously, “always. I said they were powerful and I meant it. Just because we cannot utilize them all does not mean they cannot be utilized. Imagine the immense power and hurt of four or five memories of betrayal; now imagine it is a dozen, fifty, one hundred. That emotion, those memories all piling in on one another create an enormous amount of energy with no outlet. I am forgetting and am constantly providing the marbles with new things and new memories and they became restless. They must be tended to or things like this happen—they start seeking, they start trying to fix and remember and change and relive and all sorts of things memories should not do. They are fixed branches and without constant attention and pruning those branches will deviate and sprout new leaves.”

“Are the marbles… sentient?”

“I suppose one could argue that, sure,” Alopay shrugged, “I don’t think so, personally.”

“How do I tend them?” Earl sighed, disbelief still ripe in his voice, “what do I do?”

“You acknowledge them. You touch them from time to time, roll them around in your hands, wave to them, move their bowls into different rooms, play them music, take some marbles from one dish and put them into another.”

“I provide them with enrichment, like a zookeeper?” Earl smirked just a little at the thought.

“Oh! I like that! Yes, like a zookeeper,” Alopay winked as she took another sip of her coffee.

“There must be millions of marbles in Nightvale, they can’t all be at the lodge. How do I enrich all of them? How do I keep track of so many marbles?”

“Hmm?” Alopay said curiously, tilting her head to the side, “I thought you didn’t like to play marbles?”

Earl smiled softly and reached out to take his mother’s hand this time. He squeezed and she squeezed back.

“You look so much like your father,” Alopay said wistfully, patting his cheek, “I really think it’s a shame you’re not trying to pass those good looking genes on to another generation.”

“I might yet, mom.” Earl said, reaching out and hesitantly taking the marbles off the table to shove them in his pocket. He clicked off his recorder.


End file.
